


If I Fell

by witchy_bidipoo



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 23 year old Louis, 25 year old Harry, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, And Loves Louis, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Being Put Back Together, Dubious Consent, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Finding a home, Happy Ending, Harry is sweet, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Louis is a Wild Animal, M/M, Male Prostitution, Mentions of Drugs Overuse, Mentions of Prostitution, Mentions of Underage Sex, Mentions of drugs, No Smut, Older Harry, Slow Burn, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Stubborn Louis, Trust Issues, Who Will Be Tamed by Harry, Younger Louis, homeless, mentions of past characters deaths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 49,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29663688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchy_bidipoo/pseuds/witchy_bidipoo
Summary: Louis has a lot of secrets and wounds that have yet to be healed. Harry is the one who pulls him out of the darkness and puts him back together.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Kudos: 2





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> So, I forgot I had this little bit of text for one of my lectures during my MA. I found it after doing some digging and clearing and the ideas just wouldn't stop coming.  
> I enjoy writing it so much and I hope it's not too bad and that some of you will stop by and bear with me.

The sheets are stuck on the back of his skin as he rolls on his left side to face the opened window. Red marks litter his entire back. Some are pressure sores from the bed. Others, bruises of different colours from different days. 

As he lies down, eyes closed and mouth open, a wave of hot wind barges inside the room and sweeps the mop of brown hair resting atop his head from one side to the other. His hair falls back down on his forehead, wet with perspiration. It’s the end of September yet the weather hasn’t caught on with the change of season. 

He shivers despite the hot, humid air of the afternoon and the sun bathing the room with its golden glow. The wind does nothing to cool down his boiling body. Perhaps a cold has found its way past the defensive barriers that his immune system have put in place. He hopes not, but there is no denying the ache of his limbs and his sore throat. But then again, his body is always achy and his throat always sore. So, maybe not a cold. 

A soft knock on the door makes him open his eyes. For a second, he allows himself to stare off in the distance, eyes lost on the top of the buildings of the city littering below him. There is another knock, more forceful this time. The door is still rattling, seconds after the knock fades. Dust falls from some cracks in the ceiling and settles on the dirty wooden floor of the room. 

It’s a crappy room, a very tiny room, but at least he has a roof over his head. Isn’t that what matters the most? The worst thing about the room is not the spiders and rats or cockroaches that live with him; it’s the way the place is falling to pieces, threatening to take him with it if it were to tumble to the ground. The building is old and just in front of the station where trains rattle and shake his room all day long. It sucks during the day, but at night it’s even worse. Violence is like a second nature in this neighbourhood. He’s learned that over the years. 

He drags himself out of bed just as the door stills. Adjusting his tacky trousers, he walks to the door. He tries to kick a spider away from his abandoned shoe but it scuttles away before he can reach it. 

Three turns on the left then two on the right. He twists the doorknob a bit more and is lucky enough to see the door opening before him. A tall man is leaning against the doorframe, but straightens up once he sees him. 

“Ash,” the man greets him with a deep voice. 

The man is wearing a cherub smile too big for his face that Ash has learned to ignore. Ash nods his head in return and steps aside to grant him entrance. 

They all call him Ash but to be fair, he’s never given them his real name in the first place. There is no point, he had told himself. Besides, he doesn’t have it in him to correct them, not then and not now. 

Harold –it’s the man’s name. Ash has been forced to remember it as Harry always pays him a visit on Fridays. Every Friday at the same time, no exception. Ash has never asked why.– looks around the room while Ash closes the door and puts the lock on. He does not want unwanted intruders to disrupt them. 

“Very... charming.” 

Ash doesn’t look up. It’s a thing Harry always does; he looks at the walls and furniture as if he sees them for the first time. It has become a habit and Ash doesn’t even know how it happened in the first place. Perhaps he has stayed here too long. Perhaps it is time to leave. Again. 

Harry lets a large hand full of rings touch the tiny square table. The table is pushed in the corner beside the bed. A single chair stands in front of it. 

“You look tired, ” Harry comments when the silence stretches on for too long. 

Harry faces him, book in hand. He flicks through the pages, feigning interest in the book. Ash raises his eyebrows at him before walking up to the bed and sitting down on it. He pats the spot next to him in a silent invitation once he catches Harry’s unsettling green eyes. 

They both know Harry isn’t here to discuss how tired Ash is feeling. Harry wants something else, something that requires much less talking and much more action. They know it, yet Harry never fails to try to start a conversation with him. Why does he do that, Ash wishes he knew. Or maybe not. He doesn’t really care what goes on in Harry’s brain. 

Despite his willingness to converse, Harry drops the book on the table, sending dust everywhere. Harry turns to him and in just two strides, he is towering over Ash. He is tall, much taller than him, Ash will give him that, but Harry doesn’t seem to have any dominant bone in his body. For some reason, Harry likes to let Ash be in control. 

Harry scrunches up his nose when he glances at the bed and sits at the very edge. Ash can’t blame him. The sheets are sticky and there is a funny smell hanging about in the air. There’s some questionable stains here and there that Ash has been too lazy to clean. They are gross, Ash won’t lie but Harry knows he isn’t the only one. He’s never been the only one. Ash never hid it from him. Harry just likes to pretend to be ignorant. For what reason, Ash could name a few but they are all irrelevant to him. 

“What do you want today?” Ash asks him. Straight to the point. Always. 

Ash lies back down on the bed, shoulders against the single pillow. Arms and hands folded under his head, he waits for an answer. Harry never waits too long before telling him what he wants. He’s eager though he has calmed down since the first time he came to Ash. 

Ash stares at Harry’s profile. Harry is growing a stubble, it seems. The dark hair is reaching his cheekbones and teasing the tip of his ears. His brown curly hair is short. It curls around his ears and caresses his forehead. It’s a recent look. 

When he met him for the first time, Harry was barely out of university. Young and innocent he was, lanky and quiet. Thick curls reached his shoulders, dimples out and about, chubby cheeks a constant shade of rosy pink. Harry had been shy, back then, rocking back and forth on his pigeon-toed feet, playing with the hem of his shirt, fingers devoid of rings. He could never look at Ash in the eyes. In another life, perhaps Ash would have found him adorable. 

“Are you... the guy?” He had stuttered, hesitant and cheeks blushing. 

“Depends on what you’re looking for,” Ash had replied, smirking. 

He had let Harry inside his crappy flat and had locked the door behind him. He had studied him from every angle, walking around him in circles like a lion around its prey. Harry hadn’t spoken much to him that day and when he had, he had been stumbling over his own words and blushing like a virgin. Ash had thought he would never come back but he had. Every Friday. Never missed a week. 

“Was hoping for a chat,” Harry brings him back to another era. Same place, same people yet everything feels different. 

Ash arches his eyebrows again. 

“You know the rules,” he replies. 

“I know.” 

They look at each other as silence settles between them and fills the room. The town’s clock tower goes off four times. Ash is hungry. He didn’t have any breakfast this morning. Too busy, too poor this week. 

“The usual then,” Harry says. 

Ash shrugs then nods. Whatever Harry wants, Harry gets. That’s the way it works. He sits upright and helps Harry out of his black suit. Underneath, the white expensive button up is wet from sweat. It’s not surprising considering how hot it is today. He kneels in front of Harry, hand on his naked, creamy thigh. 

“Let’s get started then.” 

An hour later, Ash disappears behind the broken bathroom door that never closes and fights with the shower for a bit. He hits the faucet before cold water finally falls over his body. Hot water is a luxury he can’t always afford. 

He doesn’t stay long. He makes sure to clean himself in all the right places before shutting off the water. There is only one small towel in the bathroom. The colour has long since faded from its original gorgeous velvety red. 

Ash dries his body then hangs the towel on the hook near the door. He avoids looking at his reflection in the dirty mirror above the sink and instead walks back to the room naked. A sigh escapes his tired mouth when he realises that Harry is still here. 

There is a silent agreement between them: when Ash showers, Harry must leave. 

“What are you still doing here?” Ash asks. 

He grabs Harry’s clothes that have been discarded on the floor and throws them at him. 

“You can’t stay here,” he adds, voice too harsh. He can’t help it. Harry is used to it, it doesn’t matter. 

This time, Harry sighs. He stands up and starts putting his fancy clothes back on. Out of all of them, Harry is the most good looking, perhaps not the richest, but close enough. Ash eyes the heavy silver watch on the table next to the bed, tempted to steal it. 

His stomach grumbles. It’s loud in the quiet of the room. He grimaces, hand massaging his tummy. Hunger has been lurking in the dark far too long to be ignored any longer. 

“Let me take you out. You’re hungry, so am I. My treat,” Harry says, voice always slow to drag the words out. 

Harry is relentless. He never seems to give up. 

Ash levels him with a look. He doesn’t need to say anything, Harry already knows. 

“I know what you’re gonna say,” Harry rushes out, hands buttoning his white shirt over smooth tattooed skin, “but let me do that for you.” 

“Harold-” 

“Yeah, the rules,” he says, curt. Harry shakes his head, hands in the air in a defensive gesture. 

Harry puts on his vest and takes out a hundred pound note from one of the pockets. Without a word, without hesitation, he hands it out to Ash. Ash takes it and nods at him. 

“How about a drink?” 

“No. Leave, now. It’s time.” 

Ash pushes Harry towards the door, ignoring his protests. 

“At least, let me buy you some food,” Harry tries. “You don’t have to eat with me, I can just buy it for you.” 

“You just paid me, I can buy food myself.” 

Ash unlocks the door, opens it and pushes Harry out. He is about to close the door in his face when Harry blocks it with his foot. His shiny new work shoes. For just a second, Ash feels bad about ruining them, but then he remembers that Harry is rich and can afford to buy a new pair if he wants to. 

“Ash, please. I’m just trying to look out for you.” Harry says. One of his hands twitches, as if he wants to touch him but Harry controls himself. 

Ash snorts. It’s inelegant and it hurts his nose but he doesn’t care. Harry can be ridiculous, that’s something that hasn’t changed. 

“You don’t even know me, Harold. Go home.” 

With that, Ash closes the door on Harry’s foot and manages to close it once and for all. On the other side, Harry is groaning. Then, it gets quiet, his footsteps retreat down the dingy hallway that smells like pot. 

Clutching the hundred pound note in a tight fist, Ash walks back to the bed. He sits on the squeaky mattress and opens the empty drawer under the table. His hand disappears inside the drawer, fingers searching for the little cord at the bottom of the drawer. When he finds it, Ash tugs on it. It reveals a secret drawer which is not empty. 

Ash retrieves a small but heavy wooden box from the secret drawer. Once open, Ash drops the note amongst hundreds of other notes and coins then slams it shut. He uses the key around his neck to lock the box before replacing it inside the secret drawer, hidden from curious eyes and wandering hands. 

It’s only as he gets up that he catches _his_ eyes. 

“You know I have to,” he tries to justify himself but the candid blue eyes don’t blink. They keep on judging and the expression is so ugly on the young boyish face that Ash has to look away. 

~ 

Selling his body for money isn’t something that Ash has ever thought he’d do. He thought he’d finish sixth form, graduate from university and find a comfortable and boring office job. 

Maybe he’d get a pet, a fish or a rabbit, maybe a cat if he was feeling adventurous, he wasn’t picky, before asking his colleague out. Then, they’d date for a couple years. He’d propose to her, they’d have children, move to a bigger house, in the countryside perhaps, and retire at an old age, exhausted from life and disappointments. His wife would cheat on him with his boss, or best mate, and he would cheat on her with his secretary and then later on with the hot younger woman next door. 

In retrospect, Ash has to admit that maybe that wasn’t the best plan nor the best life. Some might even say it’s the most boring life someone could hope for. But, –because of course there is a but– that boring life would have turned out to be better than the life he is leading now. 

What is done is done however, and there is no need to think about the past or what could have been. 

That’s what Ash tells himself as Marcus is fucking him hard and fast. He struggles to breathes, face pushed against the pillow. Marcus’s bulky weight is on his back, too heavy for him. Ash grunts when Marcus’s hands grip his neck a bit too tight, but he doesn’t try to move away from the rough touch. 

That’s what Marcus likes and wants. Unlike Harry, Marcus only cares for his own pleasure and never wants to see Ash’s face when they fuck. Marcus pays him well though, so he can’t complain. 

It continues for another long few minutes before Marcus stills as he comes inside the condom. You can say what you want about Ash, but he’s not stupid enough to have unprotected sex with strangers. 

Marcus doesn’t lose time. He gets off of him, throws the used condom on the bed and hurries to dress himself. The door slams behind him when he leaves the flat. 

Ash stays in bed, motionless, for a few minutes. His entire body is hurting. Marcus is always rough with him. Sometimes Marcus slaps him, throwing insult with each slap. Sometimes, just like today, Marcus seems to be trying to kill him with his hands, almost choking him. 

He winces when he sits up, his arse throbbing with pain. He runs a hand over his face and sighs. The two hundred pounds that Marcus gave him will allow him to do quite a big food shopping for the coming week. Maybe, he’ll even use the money to have hot water. What wouldn’t he give for a steamy shower. 

The beginning of October is already chilly and Ash knows he can’t spend winter without heating. He’d die. 

“He shouldn’t hurt you like that.” 

Ash freezes. He almost forgot about _him._ Ash lifts his eyes and sure enough, he is already looking at him with pitiful eyes. Hunched over himself, his arms are hugging his sides. 

The boy has a quiet sniffle, eyes red from contained tears. His brown hair is too long, it covers his entire forehead and keeps on falling in his eyes. Good, Ash thinks, he can’t face those blue eyes. 

“He always hurts you, we don’t like it,” the boy whispers. 

“I have to,” Ash whispers back. 

“There are other ways,” the boy’s voice cracks, he is about to weep. 

“You know there aren’t,” Ash replies. 

As much as he wants to turn away from him, Ash feels a pull towards him. He walks to the bathroom, to the dirty mirror where the boy is waiting for him. 

“That’s what you tell yourself to sleep at night,” the boy says softly. 

It’s unnerving, the way the boy always half whispers, as if he is unable to raise his voice. Somehow, it makes Ash even more uncomfortable. He puts his hands on either side of the mirror and leans in close, watching as the boy in the mirror does not duplicate his movements. 

“Don’t,” Ash says, louder. 

He is trembling but he forces himself to inhale and exhale through his nose, once, twice before he can meet the almond-shaped blue eyes again. 

“Look at you,” the boy keeps on talking, ignoring Ash’s plea. “Look at what you’ve become,” he adds. 

The boy sounds devastated and it’s way more than Ash can handle. He should walk away, ignore his cries and get the hell out of the flat for a bit. He needs to clear his head anyway, the boy is smothering him with his words and his eyes, and Ash knows it won’t end well. 

“Stop,” he finds himself gritting through his teeth, unable to look away although he is desperate to do so. 

“Do you think mum would approve? She’d be so sad, if she knew,” the boy shakes his head and lets the tears fall on his pale cheeks. 

It’s not the first time they have this conversation. The boy very often voices his concern and disappointment to him. But today, Ash can’t take it. 

“Shut up,” he snaps at him. 

Ash turns away, ready to leave the boy imprisoned in the glass behind. 

“You can’t run away forever,” the boy speaks up before Ash has made it out of the bathroom. 

Decided to ignore him, Ash dresses so quick he realises he has forgotten to put socks on by the time he reaches the staircases of the building. 

Whatever, he thinks, it’s not that cold outside. Except that when he steps outside, a gust of wind makes him shiver and liquefies his bones. Ash is too stubborn to go back inside, so he heads to the nearest shop. He needs food. 

~ 

There’s a number of reasons for Ash to hate Halloween, that range from ludicrous to painful on a personal level that he is not ready to delve into just yet. One of the main reasons that gets him infuriated with Halloween is that it’s overrated and way too commercialised. 

All shops alike use it as an occasion to sell food and clothes and adornments and decorations. Most of the time, costumers don’t even realise that patrons are taking advantage of their gullibility. Instead, they throw their money out the window and spend a fortune decorating their houses for a party that lasts one night. What’s the point? 

It’s a bloody American tradition, to begin with, that celebrates death and witches and the Underworld. Does Ash need to remind people that in the sixteenth century, women were burnt at the stake because they were accused of practising witchcraft? And it was often accusations made by jealous and petulant wives that had nothing better to do with their time. 

So why would anyone be happy to celebrate that day is beyond him. 

Nowadays, people have forgotten the true meaning of Halloween and use it as a poor excuse to wear sexy costumes and party their arses off until they pass out and vomit their guts. 

People tend to be cunts when inebriated and surrounded by dozens of other people they feel they have to compete against. They’re bad enough as it is without the need for them to make it worse with their heavy drinking. They suck, they really suck, and Ash is definitely not cynical. (Except that he is.) 

Another reason for him to despise Halloween is that one of his neighbours always throws the biggest party of the year without any regards for those living in the same building. 

There’s always deafening music that shake the walls. Ash can feel the pulsating of the bass under his feet when he pads the floor of his flat. Screams can be heard all night long and last year, Ash is pretty sure his neighbour was having an orgy. Drunks stumble outside at the wee hours of the morning, hollering at each other and laughing so loud, so obnoxious that all Ash wants to do is flip them off and tell them to fuck off. 

Despite what one may think about Ash, he doesn’t drink. First off, it costs a fortune that Ash can’t afford to spare and it brings him nothing. Yes, he could be turned into oblivion for just one night, but there is no attraction in getting drunk and losing your senses in a room full of strangers. 

Besides, alcohol tastes like shit. It’s bitter and often too strong, and it leaves a sickening aftertaste in the morning, as if something has crawled in your mouth and died. Morning breath alone is enough to make him gag, so all things considered, it’s best to avoid it. 

And don’t even get him started on trick or treating. That, is just an excuse for ungrateful kids to behave like premature arseholes and stuff their ugly pimpled faces with as many sugary sweets as their stomachs will allow, while their parents turn a blind eye and enjoy one drink too many. 

So yeah, Ash doesn’t like Halloween. He’s made his point. 

This year, Halloween falls on a Friday. That morning, Ash wakes up just as the sun is starting to grace the Earth with its presence. It’s too early and he would give everything to just go back to sleep, but it’s no use. So he gets up and dresses himself into a pair of worn out jeans and a wool jumper. His socks have holes but at least they’re warm, fluffy socks. 

His stomach growls, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten in a couple days. The heating is off and the cold wind slips through the cracks near the window, making him shiver. He needs a cup of tea and maybe some biscuits for breakfast, if he has any. 

A quick look through his cupboards and fridge on the other side of the room tells him that he has to postpone his breakfast. They’re all empty. If Ash wasn’t so set on hating Halloween, he would laugh at the absurdity of the situation, because of bloody course, out of all the days he has to run out of food, it has to be today. 

Scarf around his neck, Ash slides into his sheepskin jacket and puts on a pair of Toms that are one size too small. 

“You know what today is, don’t you?” The boy says. 

Ash doesn’t jump in surprise or fright, though he wishes he could. Because, if he did, it would mean that he is not used to _him_ , that it’s one of the first occurrences that the boy has spoken up. As it is, Ash spares a glance in his direction. He shakes his head, defeated. 

“Not now,” he manages to say. 

He doesn’t wait for the boy to reply before hurrying out of the flat. He is lucky, the streets have yet to be bustling with people running around in their Halloween outfits. 

In fact, there aren’t many people out. The usual druggies and homeless are loitering in front of the station. Apart from them, it’s mainly people dressed in nice suits, looking stressed as they dash the streets of London in order to get to their office before big boss arrives. 

Some kids in school uniform walk in groups. They’re the complete opposite of the adults, walking as slow as they can, as if that will make a difference – in the end, they will have to get to school. The contrast is so enormous that Ash has to take a second to look at the kids enjoying their stroll with their friends, making plans for the weekend and just living their youth. 

Something in his gut twists at the sight. It’s painful but it’s too early to have thoughts this deep, so Ash shakes himself out of his trance and walks on. 

The nearest Tesco is already open by the time Ash arrives. He grabs a couple packs of the cheapest brand of pasta and biscuits he can find. He passes the cheese aisle in regret and goes to the check out. This should last him for a few days. 

If there’s one thing that Ash has learnt over the years is that he has to rationalise. Whether it is his food or his money. 

At ten, one of his regulars arrives. It’s a short visit that doesn’t earn him a lot. As he is hiding the money away, he realises how full the box is. It’s hard to close the lid. Ash struggles for a couple minutes. He will have to send it all away soon. It’s way overdue. 

He has a little snack before climbing back into bed, ready for some well deserved sleep. A grimace pulls the corner of his lips down as he settles in bed. There’s a painful bruise on his left cheek and some scratches on his back that have bled overnight. 

Although he is used to the pain, it doesn’t make it better. Ash tosses over and over again, waiting for sleep to come and get him. 

A knock on the door startles him. He must have ended up falling asleep. Ash drags himself out of bed and goes to open the door. It remains shut. He grunts and kicks it with his shoulder twice. It hurts but at least the door opens. 

The man behind the door, Harry, has a low chuckle that rumbles out of his chest. It would be a nice sound if it wasn’t at his expanse. 

“You should get that door fixed,” Harry says with an easy smile despite the obvious concern of his furrowed eyebrows. 

“You should mind your own business,” Ash bites back. 

Harry enters the flat and closes the door behind him. Ash notices the giant plastic bag that Harry is carrying with him. If he is curious, he is able to keep a poker face. 

“Happy Halloween,” Harry chirps, choosing to ignore him. He sounds and looks happy, lips curved in a smile and soft eyes shining. 

Ash scoffs. Yeah, right, he thinks. 

“Same as usual?” He asks instead. 

There’s a faint blush colouring Harry’s cheeks. If his skin wasn’t so pale, Ash wouldn’t be able to see it. Not that he cares, because he doesn’t. 

“Actually,” Harry hesitates, “I was thinking we could try something different today.” 

“What did you have in mind?” 

The blush is more prominent now. Ash is starting to wonder what the hell happened to Harry. Harry is cradling the bag in front of his chest, hiding behind it. His grip is so tight that his knuckles are turning white. He seems nervous, but why would he be? Harry is the client, he decides what he wants and Ash does it. 

Harry inhales, seeming to gather the courage to speak up, then opens his mouth. 

“Well, it’s our first Halloween together, so I was thinking we could dress up and have a bit of a foreplay?” 

If it’s possible, Harry blushes even more. His cheeks are now beet red. His plump lips are red and glistening from being bitten a tad too much. 

“No,” Ash says simply. 

Harry deflates. All hope he had seems to evaporate. His shoulders sag, he releases his bottom lip from his white teeth and lowers his eyes. Under normal circumstances, Ash would feel guilt. 

“I got us some nice outfits,” Harry continues, a bit quieter than usual. “Can you at least take a look before making your decision? Please.” 

Ash sighs because even if he hates Halloween, he sometimes forgets that not everyone shares the same opinion. And, well, Harry is nice, is the thing. Out of all his clients, Harry is the nicest. He’s always treated Ash with respect and not like he’s the scum of the Earth. Even if Harry pays for his services, he always makes sure that Ash is enjoying himself. 

He must have been silent for too long because Harry has another sigh. 

“I’ll pay you double,” he offers. 

That gets his attention. Ash lifts his eyebrows in a silent question. Harry nods in return, as hope starts to come back to his features. Ash should feel guilty but he doesn’t. 

Without a word, he extends his arm. Harry is quick to hand him the plastic bag, as if afraid that Ash will change his mind. He offers him a blinding grin that carves two dimples in his cheeks. For a second, Ash is stunned, but soon enough, he shakes his head and looks away. 

Inside the bag, there’s two outfits still in their original packaging. Ash takes the first one out of the bag and raises two surprised eyebrows before glancing back at Harry. 

“What?” Harry asks, sheepish. 

The rosy tint of his cheeks is back in full force. He looks embarrassed and small without the bag to hide behind. 

“A prisoner outfit?” Ash can’t help but mock him a little. 

“Look at the other one,” Harry complains, averting his eyes. 

Ash does as told and finds that the other outfit is none other than that of a sexy prison officer that seems to be for women rather than men. 

“So, what do you think?” Harry asks. “Will you do it?” 

Harry folds his hands behind his back. The posture reminds Ash of their first encounter. 

“You’re paying me double?” He double checks. 

Harry nods in silence. Getting dressed up for Halloween is the last thing Ash wants to do, but if Harry pays him double, who is he to refuse him? 

“Fine,” he grumbles and tosses the prisoner’s awful orange outfit at Harry. “Get dressed then.” 

Harry beams at him so wide Ash is concerned his face will be split in two. He opens his mouth, maybe to thank him, but must think better of it because he starts undressing himself instead. 

Ash changes into the prison officer outfit that is indeed for women – it is written on the packaging. He feels awkward in the black spandex cut low on his chest. He doesn’t have breasts to hold it together therefore when he bends down, his chest is exposed. 

An officer badge is pinned on the left side of the outfit. There is a big black belt that keep together the top and the very tiny shorts that fall just past his bottom cheeks. Ash puts on two fishnets on his legs. They are snug around his calves and thighs and feel relatively comfortable. 

Once ready, Ash turns around and sees Harry in his gaudy orange overall, already sitting on the bed. Today, the sheets are fresh and clean and Ash can see how pleased that makes him. 

“Um,” he starts, hesitant. “I also bought something else.” 

Harry waves a pair of metallic handcuffs in his direction, eyes not quite meeting Ash’s. 

“Now the look is complete,” he adds, albeit shyly. 

Ash decides not to comment. The look on Harry’s face is enough of a give away and Ash is not cruel. He takes the handcuffs dangling from Harry’s fingers. 

“Face the wall and put your hands behind your head,” he commands in a rough tone. 

He doesn’t miss the way Harry’s pupils dilate at the words and how his eyes darken. Harry obeys him in silence. 

Ash wraps the handcuffs around his wrist, tight enough to leave some marks if Harry struggles against them but still loose enough that there is a bit of room to move. 

“You good?” He asks before they start. 

“Yeah,” Harry answers and he already sounds breathless. “‘M good.” 

Ash hums in reply then gets to work. 

After an hour of intense sex and a lot of begging on Harry’s part, Ash leaves a flushed but content Harry in bed. He heads to the bathroom, wanting to wash the sweat off of his body. 

His breathing is still too fast, his chest heaves with each intake of breath. He stays too long in the shower but he doesn’t regret it. He will, when he has to pay his water bill. For now, though, it’s the last thing on his mind. 

Upon coming back to the room, he is not surprised to see that Harry is still here. The last two weeks, Harry has been coming up with more and more excuses to stay longer, just for a chat. 

Holding back the snide remark that wants to come out, Ash’s eyes fall on Harry’s wrists instead. The skin is bright pink, it seems raw and painful, if the way Harry is massaging it is any indication. 

It takes him a few more seconds to decide on his next move. With one more look at Harry’s wrists and the scowl painted on his face, Ash backtracks into the bathroom. He grabs a half empty tube of the only cream he owns. 

“Here,” he says to Harry. “Put this on your wrists. It should help with the pain.” 

Harry accepts the cream in silence. He looks up at Ash, seeming confused. Ash rolls his eyes and ignores him in favour of getting dressed. 

“Thank you,” comes Harry’s delayed answer. 

Ash wants to tell him not to act so surprised by his sudden act of kindness but he refrains at the last second. There’s no need. 

It’s quiet for a few minutes. Ash pretends to be busy; he straightens the duvet and smoothes the sheets. It takes him some time, but Harry slips back into his suit. 

“So, I know you’ll probably say no but I figured I’d ask anyway. I mean, it’s worth a shot, I think, you know? Because there’s still, like, one percent chance that maybe you’ll say yes, who knows–” 

“Harry, just get to the point,” Ash cuts him off, losing his patience. He doesn’t even know why he bothers listening to Harry because Harry is right. Ash will say no. There’s no ‘maybe’ or ‘probably’. Just a big, flat ‘no’. 

Harry nods anyway and Ash has to admire the fervent dedication that Harry seems to have in him. 

“Well, I’m going to the pub tonight with some of my mates. There’s this special Halloween event and I thought I’d ask you if you wanted to join us?” 

Ash crosses his arms on his chest. Harry is staring back at him with an earnest and open expression. It would be so easy to fool him, Ash thinks, Harry is just that nice and gullible. 

“You do know we’re not friends, don’t you?” He asks because it’s so obvious to him that it surprises him he has to mention it. 

Harry huffs out an exasperated sound. 

“Yeah, I know. So? What do you say? Do you want to come with me?” 

“Thought we already did.” 

Harry gives him a pointed look. Ash sighs, knowing he can’t avoid this any longer. 

“Why would I join you and your mates?” 

“Maybe because you’re lonely and having a pint with us would loosen you up a bit,” Harry shrugs, opting for nonchalance. 

“I don’t need to ‘loosen up’,” he quotes. “And besides, I don’t drink.” 

“That’s fine,” Harry smiles. 

Ash realises he’s let Harry catch a glimpse of himself and curses at himself. Why did he say it in the first place? It’s not Harry’s business. 

“You don’t have to drink to have fun,” Harry continues. “Just come for a little bit? Please?” 

Instead of refusing straight away, Ash finds himself saying, “why do you care?” 

Harry blinks, a bit dazed. He licks his lips, pondering about the question. 

“Listen, Ash, I know this might seem strange to you but I do care about you and I’m pretty sure your life isn’t all that sunshine and glitter and rainbow and, I feel for you.” 

That’s his first mistake. Harry doesn’t notice how Ash’s eyes narrow or how his nostrils flare in anger. 

“With what you do for a living, I don’t think you have a lot of fun. I’d just like to help.” 

“Let me see if I understand,” Ash snarls, stroking his chin and pretending to think about it. “You pity me, maybe even think of me as a charity case, is that correct? Is that why you let me be in control? Because my whole life is shit?” 

It’s almost comical, the way Harry’s eyes widen once he realises his mistake, but Ash doesn’t feel like laughing at all. 

“Jesus, Ash, no! That came out wrong, I–” 

“Save it, Harry,” Ash snaps. “I don’t care.” 

“I think you do,” Harry counters, straightening up. “I think you do care and I think you’re too scared to let your barriers down and let people see who you are.” 

Ash’s jaw tightens. He is seething. It has been a long time since he has felt such strong emotion and part of him doesn’t know what to do or how to deal with it. 

“I think you should leave,” he manages to keep a neutral voice. He schools his features into a blank canvas so as to not let his feelings show. He’s never told anything about himself to his clients and he’s not about to start now. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says and he does look contrite but Ash doesn’t care. “I shouldn’t have said those things. You keep to yourself for a reason and I shouldn’t have assumed anything or coerced you into doing something you don’t want to do.” 

“Just leave,” Ash repeats. “I don’t think you should come back.” 

At that, Harry panics. All composure he had flies out the window. He rushes forward, one hand outstretched towards him. Harry doesn’t touch him but Ash can tell that he wants to, that it’s a narrow miss. 

“I’m sorry, I won’t ask you out again if that’s what you want. Just, please,” he runs a frustrated hand through his short hair. “I’ve got a big mouth, I never know when to shut up. Can we please just forget I said anything?” 

“Fine,” Ash interrupts his verbal diarrhoea, headache looming at the front of his head. “Only if you stop talking.” 

Harry looks embarrassed and repentant. 

“Cross my heart,” he says, solemn. 

He has a little playful smile that Ash finds very hard to ignore. He shakes his head and turns around to hide his own smile. He picks up the abandoned clothes on the floor and stuffs them inside the plastic bag. 

“Go, now,” he hands the bag to Harry. 

“I’ll see you next week?” Harry asks, a trace of uncertainty lacing his words. 

He stops at the door, one hand on the doorknob, the other clutching the bag. 

“Yeah.” 

Harry nods once, looks at him one last time then leaves the flat. 

Alone, Ash exhales a shaky sigh and runs a hand over his face. It’s not the first time he has a fight with a client and to this date, it has never affected him. This fight with Harry though, hit closer to home than he would have liked. It has left him confused and exhausted. It has reinforced his thought that it’s time he left London. 

~ 

Going to the post-office rages a war inside of him. Part of him feels almost relieved at getting rid of all his notes and coins. They’re a reminder of what he has gone through in order to obtain them. Another part of him dreads sending the money away because he has no way of knowing _their_ reaction, or what they do with the money. Do they even keep it? 

He never leaves a return address. It’s better this way, for them and for him. 

The notes and coins are safe inside one of those rectangular white envelopes. Ash is not crazy, he knows the envelop on its own would never make it to its destination. This is why he has put the envelope into another envelope and that second envelope into a big brown envelope. And that brown envelope has been placed inside a small parcel that he got from WHSmith. 

The person behind the counter stares at him. They seem suspicious. To be fair, when asked what was inside the parcel, Ash has refused to answer, there was no way he could tell the truth. It took him several seconds before coming up with something. 

“It’s some family heirloom,” he had said with a shrug. “Not very valuable but they mean a lot, you know?” 

If the worker did know, they didn’t comment. Ash was thankful for that. 

The small parcel is now sitting on the scale in front of him, waiting to be weighed 

“Second class?” The worker, Gus from the nametag he wears on his red vest, asks. 

Gus’s eyes trail over Ash’s scrubby and unshaven face before lowering down over his ratty, discoloured clothes. It’s clear to him that this judgemental sod thinks Ash looks worse for wear. 

He’s not wrong, per se; Ash does have scruffy jeans and a dirty coat. His hair is indeed untidy and his beard is starting to be too long. But no matter how right Gus is, it’s rude of him to point it out, even if just with his expression and not actual words. 

Ash squares his shoulders and lifts his chin. 

“Actually,” He says, somewhat defensive, “I want one of those special deliveries guaranteed to arrive by tomorrow morning and signed for.” 

Gus stares at him, dumbfounded. Ash feels a familiar stir of smugness arising in him. Like a haughty child, he puffs his chest and thrums his fingers on the counter. When Gus has yet to move, Ash arches his brows expectantly. 

“Um... Right. Hang on just a second,” Gus fumbles over his own words. 

He clears his throat then types some things on his keyboard. 

“Right,” Gus says after a minute of tensed silence. “So, that will be twenty-seven pounds twenty-nine pence.” 

Ash hums and hands him three tenner’s. 

“Keep the change,” he finds himself saying just because he is a stubborn idiot. 

With that change, he would have treated himself to a small, warm meal from Gregg’s, but no. Instead, he has the need to shake this guy’s beliefs that don’t even matter to him. 

What a tool he is. 

~ 

By the time November is almost over, it gets really cold. Temperatures fall just below zero degree yet it doesn’t snow. Ash can’t remember a time when it snowed in November. If it were to snow in England, it wouldn’t be until January or February. 

So, despite the ruthless, arctic breeze that freezes his body and numbs his every joint, Ash doesn’t turn the heating on. He is dying to, especially when his teeth are clattering together all day long, but he resists the temptation. He’s done this before. He needs to save the heating for the harsher months of winter that have yet to come. 

Instead, he uses a tatty blanket that he has spread over the duvet. At some point, it had been soft, but now it’s just rough to the touch. The fabric has become uncomfortable, it’s itchy and makes Ash’s skin red and blotchy. 

That blanket and cups of black tea suffice to keep him somewhat warm. Even if it didn’t, it’s not like Ash has a whole lot of other options lining up. 

It is what it is. 

In the mean time, Ash has his clients to keep him from freezing to death. It’s more than he can ask for, considering. 

Most of his clients are understanding. Some buy him proper tea from the coffee shop when they realise how awful the insulation of his flat is. It’s a nice gesture, Ash accepts the tea because he is grateful to them. But, he tries to avoid having to say yes. He doesn’t want to owe them anything. 

Someone who doesn’t understand no when he hears it, is Harry. He has taken it upon himself to make sure that Ash will survive the coming winter. He’s bought him new blankets and a ridiculous Christmas jumper that lights up if you press on a button, as well as the fluffiest socks Ash has ever seen. 

The gifts lay, abandoned, untouched, on the table near the bed. Ash refuses to unwrap them. Every Friday, Harry comes bearing a new gift and a smile too bright, too wide and too cheerful. He spoils Ash and pouts when he sees his gifts have not been moved. 

Harry is sweet, Ash knows that. He’s sweet and for some reason, he has taken a liking to Ash and seems to care for him. But, he remains his client and Harry seems to be struggling to understand that they can never be friends. 

The only person who isn’t coddling him is him. _He_ is very good at kicking Ash when he’s down. He’s wonderful at it, a real gift, yet he doesn’t enjoy it. In fact, he seems to hate it. 

“Why do you let him hurt you?” he asks one day, after an agonising and virulent session with Marcus. 

It’s been a few minutes since Marcus left, slamming the door behind him and without a word for him. Ash still hasn’t moved from his position on the bed. It feels like he will never be able to stand up again. 

He doesn’t need to take a look in the mirror; he already knows bruises are forming on his back and neck. Fingerprints. 

Marcus has been grazing his sharp nails over his skin, drawing blood here and there. Ash had felt it trickling down his back, thick, warm, sticky. Its dried now, but the pain is still very much real. His back hasn’t stopped throbbing. It’s in agony and it screams on the inside, shouting ‘why, why’. All Ash can do it is suffer in silence. 

“You don’t need him,” the boy continues when it has become evident that he wasn’t going to get an answer. 

It takes a lot of effort, pain and will for Ash to turn around and sit up. His back protests with each movement but Ash has become really good at ignoring what his body is telling him. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ash croaks out, throat thick with feelings he is trying to push back down. Bile threatens to take over and for a second, he gags and dry heaves. 

His eyes prickle and sting. He rubs at them a couple times, willing himself to keep his countenance. It’s proven difficult when his body feels too hot under the boy’s unwavering gaze. 

“I do know,” the boy whispers, too grave for his young age, too haunted. “I know everything, I see everything. I’m always here.” 

It’s nothing that Ash didn’t know before, but still, it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, a hollow feeling in his guts. The boy is right. No matter how much Ash wishes he was not, because then, everything would be much easier, he can’t lie to himself. Not when said truth is staring back at him with shallow, empty eyes that know too much, have seen too much. 

“Ash,” the boys weeps. 

In his mouth, it sounds wrong, like that name doesn’t belong there, like the boy shouldn’t be calling him that. It’s as if the boy reads his mind because his next words hit right where Ash doesn’t want him to hit. 

“Denying your identity won’t change you. It doesn’t mean you’ve ceased to exist. That’s the reason I’m here, is it not? Because you need to be reminded, don’t you? Because even if you try, you can’t forget, can you?” 

Ash closes his eyes, pretending that the boy doesn’t exist, that he’s not being held prisoner in that mirror, but it’s no use. He can wish all he wants, the boy is still here, still talking. Even when Ash is surrounded by a false sense of security, the boy reminds him of his presence. 

Even now, the boy lands the last blow after being silent long enough for Ash to believe he would be left in peace. 

“That’s why they’re here. To punish you. Because you need to punish yourself.” 

They stare at each other. The boy, calm and collected albeit on the verge of a precipice with nothing to hold him back. Ash, crazed and breathing too fast, about to combust. 

“But they’ll never punish you as well as you do. You do it too well.” 

The boy starts crying, quiet and face hidden between his small hands. His shoulders are shaking every few seconds. 

Ash can only stare at him with misty eyes and burning, unshed tears, unsure of what to do. He feels disarmed, bare of the lofty fences that used to protect him. Vulnerable. 

Once again, the boy has managed to shatter the walls that he spent so long building. Ash can see the cracks, the breaches that the boy has hammered down on the walls with his words as the most colossal weapon. Not once has he spared Ash’s feelings. 

Ash stays silent because what can he say to comfort him? No words would ever be enough, he knows that too well. The boy’s wound is too deep to be bandaged and soothed by words. 

So, he watches from his seat on the bed as the boy in the mirror cries. He is still so quiet that if it were not for the sniffles and hiccups, Ash would think the boy had never been here in the first place, that Ash had been alone all along. 

He is not, alone. He is never alone. 

~ 

It’s not very often that Ash ventures outside for a leisure walk. In fact, he tries to minimise the number of times a week he leaves his flat. When he does step outside, aside from going to the post-office or the shops, more often than not he has to make a big detour in order to avoid drug dealers. Their favourite meeting point is a few streets down, and Ash often sees them smoking in small groups. 

He hasn’t ever had any encounter with them so far and he intends for it to stay that way. In addition to the drug dealers – who are not so discreet about exchanging weed for money –, Ash also avoids going out too late at night. 

He would very much like to not get mugged or killed on his way back home. He couldn’t get robbed even if he wanted to because he never carries money with him. Well, except for when he goes to the shops, but that’s never at night. 

Today, Ash has felt the unbearable need to just go out and walk. To see where his feet would lead him. At home, he had been suffocating under _his_ heavy gaze. Ash couldn’t have stayed there one more minute. 

He doesn’t go very far, he realises. He is quite tired, his nights haunted and interrupted by dark, dancing shadows, hiding in every corner of his mind. There’s a small park not too far from his flat that he has never taken the time to visit. 

It’s rather calm when he arrives, much unlike Hyde Park. There are very few people and that fits his needs to the utmost perfection. The streets of London swarm with loud people who run into you and disappear from sight before apologising. 

It might just be the first week of December but there are already so many passers-by that are carrying Christmas gifts and wrapping paper, an idiotic smile stretching their mouths. Ash wants to scoff at them, disdainful, but the truth is that he was once like them. 

He used to be one of those people that would have their Christmas tree up and ready to be decorated by the first of December, too eager to wait until at least the nineteenth. Every day, he would wear ridiculous and colourful Christmas jumpers, some that sing Christmas carols, some that light up if you pressed the right button. 

He used to bake spiced Christmas cookies every Saturday leading up to Christmas day and would devour them in just a couple days, when no one was looking. He was one of those chirpy, happy, goody-two-shoes who would enlist in the town’s Christmas carols choir, going from house to house, knocking on doors and freezing half to death just to spread some cheerful holiday spirit. 

On Christmas eve, he would stuff his face with sweet, hot chocolate, hoping that all the sugar in the drink would help him fight off his sleepy eyes. He would try to stay awake through the whole night in the hopes of catching a glimpse at Father Christmas going down the chimney, only to wake up in his bed, buried under duvets upon duvets. Sometimes he would hide at the bottom of the stairs, in the coat cupboard, feeling like Harry Potter before he found out he was a wizard. He would strain his ears to see if he could hear Santa Claus walking around the living room, munching on the biscuits and drinking the glass of cold milk that he’d leave by the tree so Santa could refresh himself. 

On Christmas day, he would wake up early, while the whole house was still sound asleep. He would run down the stairs, tripping every so often, still wearing his pyjamas because he was way too excited to see the presents under the tree – or sometimes in the Christmas stockings – to think about getting dressed. 

He used to wish for a Christmas in July because his sensitive body had always disagreed with cold, snowy winters. Because, it would mean more presents and chocolate and roast dinners. 

Christmas had meant the world to him, at one point, but not anymore. Now, he spends his Christmases alone, doing nothing and wallowing in self-pity, indulging himself just this one day. Then, on Boxing Day, he pretends that everything is fine, that everything is the same as it is, as it should be. 

As he walks around the park, Ash relaxes. Solitude is his greatest friend. He exhales a breath that he hasn’t realised he had been holding since he entered the park. 

The wind is nippy today but not as cold as November has been. He sits on an empty bench and admires the dead trees of the park. They’re standing tall despite their nakedness. Imposing. The short, wet grass has been cut not long ago, its fresh spicy scent still lingers in the air. 

Some dogs bark in the distance, the owners making small talk before bidding each other goodbye and hurrying to exit the park. Rain is near after all; he feels it in the change of pace that the wind takes. The sky is dark, a grey almost as black as a raven’s feathers, full of dangerous clouds, low and terrifying, filled with contained water that begs to be let out. 

He hears the rumbling of thunder above just as the delighted squeal of a little girl booms on his right. Then there’s some running footsteps hitting the ground before the little girl Ash has heard stops not too far away. She has dirty blonde hair that reaches the middle of her back and looks to be about four or five years old. She runs to get to the barriers of what they call a lake but should be called a pond instead, considering its rather tiny size. 

“Look, Daddy!” The little girl points at something on the water that Ash can’t distinguish. “Ducks!” 

Another delighted squeal escapes her mouth, followed by a loud, high-pitched laugh when a man who Ash supposes is her father, scoops her up in his arms. He twirls her around a couple times, laughing just as much as the little girl. 

They’re beautiful together. Innocent and happy. Ash can’t stop the repugnant monster called jealousy from growling inside of him, claws and fangs out, ready to pounce. 

Ash envies them. 

“Can we feed the ducks, Daddy?” The little girl asks her father. 

The man has a chuckle as he strokes her head. He kneels down next to her, seeming not to care about the dirt that his trousers will gather. 

“No, love. Do you remember what Daddy told you about feeding bread to the ducks?” The man speaks with a soft and patient voice, looking into the girl’s eyes. 

“Um...” The girl puts on a show of thinking hard about the question, a hand on her chin. “Because... Because ducks don’t eat bread? They’re not humans like us? Oh! And they need special nutrents,” she concludes with a happy, satisfied smile on her face. 

The man has another laugh and ruffles his daughter’s hair. 

“That’s right, love. They need special _nutrients_ that they can’t find in bread.” 

“But aren’t they sad? I know I’m always sad when Mummy refuses to let me eat bread.” The little girl has a pout on her lips when she crosses her arms on her pudgy chest. 

“I’m sure they’re very happy,” the dad answers, affectionate. 

As if to prove his point, one of the ducks makes a ‘quack’ sound before plunging its head underwater. The girl squeals again, clapping her hands at the sight. 

“Alright, love. Let’s go home,” the dad says, getting back up on his feet. 

He holds his hand out for his daughter to take without a second thought or glance towards his stained trousers. 

“Can we have bread and hot chocolate, pretty please, Daddy?” The girl asks, skipping from one foot to the other. 

“Maybe after lunch, OK puppet?” 

“Alright, Daddy. You need to convince Mummy or she won’t let me.” 

The sound of their conversation fades as they walk away towards the exit. 

Ash watches them leave the park. After witnessing this interaction, he doesn’t feel like staying outside anymore. He shivers when the wind picks up and buries himself further into his coat. 

On the way back to his flat, a few police sirens resonate in the streets. At first, Ash doesn’t pay attention to the noise because they’re a recurrent occurrence in this neighbourhood. 

Upon arriving in his street, Ash sees what all the commotion is about. There are two trucks from the fire brigade parked right in front of a building. The area is closed and police officers stop anyone who tries to duck under the safety tape put in place around the perimeter. 

And then, running around to fight against the raging, destructive fire, the firefighters. Armed with protective clothing and long, large water hoses, they hasten to spray cooling water into the treacherous flames that are licking at everything that steps in their way. 

That’s when Ash notices that what is burning at the speed of light is his own building. Dread, cold as ice, fills him, so rapid and sudden he has to halt his steps. His heart hammers against his ribcage, trying to break it and run away. He feels every single beat. It echoes in his ears and pushes past the pulsations of the blood rushing to his face. 

He feels it before it happens. His breathing gets too shallow, too thin and difficult to draw proper intakes of breath out. It starts with the trembling of his hands before it reaches his upper body. Then it’s his entire body that shakes like the leaves on a tree during a storm; violent, uncontrollable. 

The world around him keeps on moving and living, but he ceases to exist. For this one moment, time is frozen. There’s a deafness to the world around him that seems to paralyse him. His eyes don’t see, his ears don’t hear, his limbs don’t move. Everything else but his ragged, tortuous breathing is mute. 

He panics as he tries to fend off this merciless invader that attempts to drag him into the darkness of his mind. With its skinny, skeleton-like arms that appear frail but are as strong as Goliath as they lure him to a sombre place. A place from which he would never come back. 

“Hey, you alright mate?” A voice asks him. 

All at once, it comes crashing against the intruder like the ferocious waves against the shore. It retreats, hissing and snarling, spitting sounds. 

The sirens can be heard once more, as more police cars arrive in the street and come to an abrupt stop, wheels screeching on the concrete. The shouts of the firefighters bellowing orders and roaring war-like cries surpass any other noise. 

Reporters are already at the forefront of the scene, right behind the security tape, cameras up and running. Behind them, a crowd of curious eyes and gossiping minds have gathered. 

“Mate, hey, are you gonna pass out?” The same female voice asks him. 

Ash has to shake his head in order to leave his trance and focus on the person in front of him. The woman is waiting for an answer, eyes unblinking as she stares at him. 

“Yeah,” Ash starts to say. He has to clear his scratchy, throat a few times as the words don’t seem to come out of their own will. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he manages to say. 

“Maybe you should sit down,” the woman says with a kind voice. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she adds after a beat. 

Ash’s eyes trail back to the burning building, to the black smoke spiralling towards the sky like a small cyclone. Somehow, it seems to come in contact with the grey clouds above. The vision is horrific yet alluring, in the darkest way imaginable, almost baneful to anyone who watches. There is a beauty to it that Ash couldn’t explain even if he racked his brain to find the right words. 

“I’m alright,” he repeats, his voice firmer and gaining assurance. Still then, it sounds distant to his own ears, as if he hasn’t yet come back from the depth of his mind. 

“Do you live here? In the building that’s burning? The cops would want to talk to you, I think,” the woman says, unaware of the inner battle happening inside of him. 

“No, no. A friend of mine does, though.” Lies, lies, lies. 

It’s all lies but Ash can’t do anything else at the moment, not while so many eavesdropping strangers surround him. He sends what he hopes is a polite smile towards the woman before excusing himself. He turns away from her, from the crowd, from the excruciating sight that his eyes can no longer bare to witness. 

It’s too late, though. The scenery is already imprinted in his mind. When he closes his lids, when he blinks, he can still picture the hot, orange flames that are destroying everything on their path. 

Before he can walk away and run as far away from this doomed street as he can, he hears someone shouting his name. 

“Ash!” They say. 

He is reluctant, his only need is to go, go and never come back, but he turns around. At first, he doesn’t see who has called out for him, but soon enough, a head that he knows too well emerges from the crowd. 

“Ash! Thank God you’re OK!” 

It’s Harry, of course it’s him. Ash would be surprised but he is not. It’s like fate tries to push them towards one another, but he resists. He won’t give in. 

A laugh, leaning towards hysterical, bubbles in his throat at the absurdity of the situation. That’s all he can do to not crumble and collapse in front of Harry, of strangers. If he did, would he get back up on his feet? 

Harry reaches him, breathless and a little bit crazed, eyes big and wide, curls unruly and sticking out in odd directions. 

Ash doesn’t see it coming, though he should have. Harry embraces him with his long arms and presses Ash close to him. Ash blinks. He stays there, unmoving against Harry’s solid chest until Harry has assured himself that Ash is indeed safe. 

“When I saw the fire, I thought–” Harry cuts himself off. It’s abrupt and a bit frantic. In his terrified green eyes, Ash can decipher the truth that Harry has failed to mention. 

Free from Harry’s grasp, Ash takes a step back to put some distance between them. Around them, no one is paying attention to them. All eyes are still fixated on the burning building and their hushed whispers wondering about the cause of the fire resonate in his head. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks Harry. 

He can’t focus on himself or let his thoughts have the power to take over his mind. If he did, the creature inside would never let him come out of the abyss he would have been plunged into. It’s a risk too great to take. 

“It’s Friday,” Harry interrupts his train of thoughts. He wouldn’t admit it, but he is grateful for the distraction, no matter how unaware it has been given. 

“Oh,” is all he replies. 

Harry frowns. He has calmed down from his almost frenzy and his calming eyes search his face. What is he looking, Ash would rather not know. Ignorance is bliss. 

“Hey,” Harry says with the softest voice Ash has heard so far. He waits until he has Ash’s attention before continuing. “What are you going to do?” 

Harry, sweet, ignorant Harry, asks the one question that Ash has been too scared to think about. What _is_ he going to do? 

Even if the whole building doesn’t burn down, even if by some crazy miracle, his flat stays intact – which he so, so doubt, considering the grandeur of the fire – the owners would have to rebuild most if not all of the building. 

They’d have to speak with their assurance and have the police lead an investigation to determine whether the fire was an accident or not. The police would be looking for the tenants living in the building. They’d ask them questions about unusual or suspicious activities, they’d ask questions about the state of the building before it burnt down. They would want to obtain answers. They’d track down all the people living in those flats. 

And then, maybe, if they’re lucky, if they don’t decide to sell instead, the owners would have the green light to, at last, hire builders. Only once the building is habitable again would the owners let the tenants return to their flats. 

The whole process could take months, years even. Indeed, what is Ash going to do? Where is he going to go? 

Harry must see or sense his silent turmoil, because his lovely face has that expression that Ash hates: pity. 

“Ash,” Harry starts to say but Ash shakes his head. 

He can’t have Harry, or anyone else for that matter, look at him like that. It brings back a whole lot of memories that he is so not prepared to allow back in his head, let alone deal with. So, he shrugs instead and puts on a mask of steel, hoping that his face will cooperate and stay neutral. 

“I’ll figure something out,” he says. He always does, has been doing for a long time. Why should it be different now? 

Harry doesn’t seem to believe him if his frown is anything to go by, so Ash starts walking away. His pace is swift. He wants to put as much distance as he can between himself and the ashes of a life he has to kiss goodbye. Footsteps echo behind him and when a hand lands on his arm, Ash is not surprised. 

“Ash, wait,” Harry says and turns Ash towards him. “Why don’t you speak with the police? You’re not the only one in this position. I’m sure they will help you find somewhere to stay until you fall back on your feet.” 

At that, Ash scoffs. He runs a shaky hand through his hair. He would like to be as naive as Harry, he does. 

“Please, don’t be daft,” he replies, not meeting his eyes. 

Shaking Harry’s hand off of his arm, Ash turns around again and picks up his pace. Maybe if he’s fast enough, Harry will give up trying to follow him. There’s a loud thunder that explodes overhead, somewhere to the left. 

“What do you mean?” Harry sounds hurt. He hasn’t moved from where Ash left him. 

Ash sighs and, cursing himself, he turns back around and strides over to Harry. Harry is still frowning at him, his lips turned down in a grimace. 

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” Ash snaps at him. It’s unjustified but Harry doesn’t seem to mind. 

“I don’t know, Ash. That’s why I’m asking.” 

He sounds genuine, as if he means that he doesn’t understand what Ash is saying. Again, Ash sighs. He is starting to feel frustrated, with himself, with Harry, with the situation that seems to mock him. 

“I wasn’t renting the place, Harry,” he lets out at last. “I was subletting, it wasn’t legal. My name doesn’t appear on the lease because I never signed a contract. So no, I can’t go to the cops because they’d start asking questions after questions, and it wouldn’t be long until they found out about my little business.” 

His frustration ends up taking the better of him so that he ends up screaming the last few words. He’s exhausted, the day has dragged on and his never-ending stream of feelings don’t seem like they will leave anytime soon. All he wants, all he needs is some peace and quiet to think about his next moves. 

“I didn’t–” Harry begins to say, thoughts upon thoughts swimming in his eyes, but Ash cuts him off. 

“No, of course you didn’t,” he snaps before he can stop himself. 

It’s not fair on Harry whose only goal seems to help him, but Ash can’t bring himself to care or regret his harsh tone. 

Harry’s brows are pinched in a confused frown, his eyes stare at him. Ash can’t make out what Harry is thinking and a petulant part him argues that whatever it is, he doesn’t care to find out. He’s not sure if he does or not. 

“Where are you going to stay?” Harry asks after a few silent moments. “Do you have any friends you can stay with?” 

“That’s none of your business.” 

“No, I know, but you can’t live on the streets. It’s not safe.” 

The frustration drains out of him, leaving place for his exhaustion to heighten. He doesn’t have the will to fight anymore. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says with a sigh and a rub of his tired eyes. 

He looks away then, and starts walking down the street again. He can’t bear to witness the expression that Harry is sporting, he cannot deal with it. He hadn’t even meant to be honest. He’d wanted to flip Harry off, tell him to get lost and find himself someone else to fool around with. The idea of another fight hadn’t been appealing so he had revealed the truth instead. 

“Ash, wait,” Harry calls out again. 

Without slowing down or glancing over his shoulder, Ash just says a brief, “what?” 

In the next couple seconds, Harry appears at his side. They walk in silence before Harry makes up his mind. 

“Look, I know it’s out of the blue, but I have a spare room. It’s yours if you want it.” 

Ash stops walking and turns to him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. His first reaction is to laugh but he controls himself and forces the laugh to die in his throat. 

“What, just like that? What if I am a psycho with a hidden desire to kill anything that moves?” 

“Are you a murderous psycho?” Harry asks, eyebrows raised. 

“No,” Ash scoffs, the thought is ridiculous. 

“There goes your answer,” Harry smirks and Ash is pretty sure his eyes are sparkling with amusement. 

“But I could be,” he argues for the sake of having the last word. 

“I don’t think you are,” comes Harry’s simple answer and easy smile. “Even if you were, I’d take the risk. So, what do you say?” 

“What if you’re the one who’s a murderous psychopath who’s waiting to get me alone to kill me?” 

“I’ve been alone with you before,” Harry replies. “If that reassures you, no, I am not a murderous psychopath who’s waiting to kill you.” 

“This conversation is pointless. I have no intention of accepting your offer. I’ll figure something out by myself,” he repeats because maybe if he says it enough times, it will become true. 

“So you’d rather sleep on the streets in the middle of winter than in my spare bedroom, in a free, warm bed because you’re too proud and stubborn to let other people help you?” Harry seems to be confused. There is no undertone of judgement in his voice. 

It bothers Ash that Harry has been able to see right through his act. It’s unsettling and he doesn’t know what to make of it. Has Harry always been staring at him, gathering and storing information about him to use for his own personal gain? Or is he that observant? Is his offer genuine or does it conceal darker purposes? 

Part of him likes to think that he knows Harry, knows that Harry has a kind heart of gold and would never dare to hurt anyone. The bigger part of him, though, doesn’t trust Harry. 

“You don’t want me to live with you, Harry.” 

“Yes, I do. The thought of you living alone on the streets... You know I care for you, Ash, I never hid it from you.” Harry’s deep voice is soft and the way he looks at him is so gentle it makes him uncomfortable. 

“Who says I’m alone?” Ash counters. He waves a dismissing hand in the air. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not coming to live with you.” 

Harry’s mouth twitches, as if he wants to argue, fight against him, perhaps insist until Ash gives in and agrees to go live with him. Instead of doing just that, Harry nods his head, once. 

“Alright. Here,” he says, handing him a white card with the name Harry Styles written on it. “If you change your mind, my number is written at the bottom.” 

Ash takes it. He has no intention of ever calling him though he doesn’t say it to Harry. Accepting to take the card will make Harry go away faster. 

“I guess this is it, then?” 

It sounds like a statement, a fact, rather than a question. There’s a downward tilt to Harry’s mouth that wasn’t there before, full of disappointment. His kind eyes can’t quite hide the gloom and unhappiness that Ash sees in them but perhaps they’re not meant to. Harry puts his hands in the pockets of his fancy, unwrinkled trousers. 

“Yeah.” 

Harry nods. There isn’t anything left for him to say. 

When the silence stretches on long enough to make him uncomfortable again, Ash clears his throat, willing the awkwardness that has taken his body hostage to disappear. It’s rare for him to feel that way and Harry usually has a lot to say to fill the silence. Or he used to, seeing as his stubborn mouth stays shut. 

“Right. Well, I’ll be going then.” 

Ash points behind him in a vague gesture. In all honesty, he doesn’t know why he is still standing here, talking with Harry. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that it’s the last time he will ever see Harry. He must be nostalgic, that’s all this is. 

Whatever it is, it’s irrelevant. Even if Harry is a sweet man, he doesn’t matter to Ash. No one has mattered to him in a long time and it’s not about to change, he has no reason for it to change. 

He looks up, waiting to hear Harry’s final goodbye that never comes. The man continues to stare at him with a slight frown, as if he expects for Ash to do something. Ash has no clue as to what it could be. 

“Goodbye, Harry.” 

He’s about to turn around, for good this time, when he decides that, what the heck, and speaks before he can change his mind. 

“You were always my favourite.” 

He stands a bit taller, hating the height difference between them and plants a light, rapid kiss – just a brush of his mouth, like the touch of a ghost – to Harry’s cheek. 

Giving him the barest hint of a smile – something that he never does – Ash nods and walks away. This time, he doesn’t look back. 

It’s time to begin a new chapter. 


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is part two. I'm thinking there will be four parts in total.

Living on the streets had been a wake up call, the first time, an unforgiving experience that has taught him so much about the world. He had been young, so much younger than he is now, innocent about the ways of the world. He had strayed to Sheffield, so new to this kind of life it makes him cringe when he dares to think about it. There had been one thing that he was certain about though, was that he couldn’t let the police find him.

Staying too close to high street had been too dangerous. It wouldn’t had taken long for police officers or social workers to spot him if they happened to go there. He had had to find an abandoned and secluded place to sleep in, one that still had a roof.

Back then, he had been carrying all his meagre possessions in a duffel bag. He didn’t have much: a couple pair of trousers and shirts, a jumper, his favourite book and his phone charger and headphones. It had been naive and futile to think that he would have been able to use his phone. It had been an old phone, one of those with an actual keyboard and no camera, where the only games you had were Tetris and the snake game.

The only thing of value – and by value, understand personal, emotional value – had been a black and white photograph that he used to keep hidden between the rumpled, yellowish pages of his book.

The abandoned house he had managed to find by pure accident was situated on the outskirts of Sheffield, a few miles from the city centre and well away from the police station. It had been an isolated house falling to pieces with broken furniture and windows.

There had been several other young people already living in the house when Ash showed up. They’d welcome him to stay with them so long as he didn’t bring trouble with him. Some of them were migrants who spoke very few words of English so Ash had never had an actual conversation with them. Some were just as young as he was, perhaps a couple years younger; Ash had been too frightened to ask or talk with anyone for a long time. Others were junkies who spent their days in a hazy cloud of smoke and drowned themselves in alcohol, sometimes snorted ecstasy or any other drug they could put their hands on.

One of the junkies had told Ash that if he was always stoned and drugged, he could never remember his old life and that’s where the beauty of smoking pot resided in. When a girl who must not have been older than eighteen died of an overdose a few weeks later, Ash had vowed to never choose the same path as them. Today, he is still true to his word.

The first night in the house, Ash hadn’t slept. His blurry eyes had been burning with exhaustion, begging to be closed, but Ash couldn’t bring himself to sleep. The sounds of snores and quiet voices had not been able to lull him to sleep. His bag had been used as a pillow, scared that someone would attempt to steal it.

In the middle of the night, a fight had erupted between two of the migrants. There had been shouts, grunts and the sound of someone hitting a wall. Ash hadn’t understand the language they were speaking and somehow, not knowing what they were saying had been worse.

He had shared a room on the second floor with a few other kids. It had been cramped, with just a tiny spot for Ash to lay down under the window. By the time the sun had risen again in the morning, Ash’s body had been sore from the wooden floor of the room.

On the second night, he had tried to resist sleep again despite the state of utter exhaustion he had been in. He had woken up with a start and bumped his head on the windowsill when a door had slammed shut somewhere in the house. Cursing at himself for falling asleep, he had rubbed his painful forehead and had stayed awake until morning. Luck had smiled down at him like a mother smiles at her newborn when he had realised that none of his belongings were missing.

As the days had passed, Ash had settled into a routine: he’d spend the morning near a bus stop, hoping that some passers-by might find it in their heart to give him some coins so he could buy himself some lunch. It hadn’t always worked, though.

Some days, all he’d receive were insults or rude comments telling him he should be working like they were instead of begging – ha! If only they knew. Other days, he’d only have a few pennies that wouldn’t be enough to eat anything. On those days, he’d go to bed, stomach howling in hunger, limbs shaking and head dizzy, black dots dancing in front of his eyes. He’d power on though. That had been his sole option, still is in a way.

In the afternoon, he’d take place in high street with all its opened shops while the schools were about to close for the day. There had been higher chances for families or working people, done with their day, to gift him with some money that he felt he didn’t deserve. He had been luckier there than at the bus stop.

In the evening, Ash would hang out with the kids his age. They’d talk about anything but the reason they had ended up on the streets. They all had baggage and all of their stories – Ash had been sure – were sad and depressing. It had been better to avoid such topics so as not to extinguish the flickers of hope that still shone as bright as the sun. Ash had some vague ideas about his peers’ previous lives but he had kept it all to himself.

It had all been in vain – the flickers of hope they still had – because they had been young and innocent kids, back then.

A few months after first arriving at the house, Ash had realised that the little bit of hope he had been entertaining was useless. The flame of hope had died when a new guy had come to stay at the house.

The same night the newcomer had arrived, he had stolen a few of their possessions before fleeing in the darkness of the night, silent as a shadow, swift as a thief.

Ash, who had started to relax in this new environment, had stopped sleeping with his bag under his head. It had been the gravest and stupidest mistake he had ever made. Indeed, the next morning, he had woken up and discovered that his bag was missing. Save for the book he had fallen asleep reading, all his belongings were gone. He had nothing left.

No money, no clothes, no food, no phone. Nothing.

It had been a lesson, a cruel, gut-wrenching lesson. It had left him sobbing in a corner, angry at himself for being so trusting and at ease in this house. The one positive that did come out of this lesson had been that since then on, Ash had never placed his trust in anyone or anything ever again. If every single person roaming this planet was cunning and deceiving, Ash was not going to be a fool.

Not long after, he had left the house and Sheffield altogether, deciding that he needed a new beginning. Nothing had been holding him back anymore. By some godly miracle, he’d managed to find someone to give him a ride to Rotherham, further North. From then, he had waited until he had enough money to book a train ticket to Leeds.

In Rotherham, and for the first few days in Leeds, Ash had had to sleep on the streets. It had been the first time he had had to do that. To say he had been scared would be an understatement. He had been petrified he would end up being killed by some random, angry drunk.

That first night, he had chose to trespass a park that had closed for the night. He had figured he would be somewhat safe if he found a bush to hide behind. Ash had walked to the other side of the park and had settled behind the tallest bush. In the morning, he had woken up with a pigeon unloading its excrements on his head.

That, perhaps, had been the lowest point of his life, at the time. He was lucky enough that the park had a small fountain with clear water that he’d used to clean himself up.

The second night, he had slept at a bus stop, trying to shield himself from a downpour that had lasted all night. It hadn’t worked, the wind had been too strong, too wild. The next day, he had been all sneezes and coughs and runny nose, all thanks to the marvellous English weather.

It had went on in a similar fashion until he had found another abandoned house in Leeds.

Those few weeks on the streets still haunt his dreams sometimes. Ash is still frightened at the prospect of doing it all over again. He has never forgotten.

The hunger gnawing at your insides like a dark creature feeding off of you; the constant fear of running into the wrong crowd of people and having your blood spilled into the dirty streets of England; the fights that break out every night, caused by angry drunks, desperate to burn off their frustration on other people who are less fortunate; the deep, instant relief you felt in the morning when you woke up to live another day; the unpredictable weather and how no matter where you are, the relentless, harsh wind and heavy, cold rain track you down; the pitiful and judgemental looks given by those who happen to catch your eye, by accident or on purpose; the comments that you so wish you could ignore but they’re just like glue, they stick and you can’t get rid of them, it hurts if you try; the nauseating and revolting smell that you carry with you because you haven’t had a proper shower in days, sometimes weeks, a smell as pungent as a putrid, decaying corpse.

All of these still haunt his dreams. Ash wishes he didn’t have to do this again but he doesn’t have any other option.

It’s been a few days since the fire burnt the building down – three, to be precise –, since Ash has reverted to his old ways. He would try to find another flat but London isn’t known for being cheap. His money burnt alongside the building, as well as his clothes, and everything he owns. Save for the clothes he is wearing and his papers that he always keeps on him out of safety, he has nothing left.

For the past three days, Ash has been steering clear of his old neighbourhood in case the police is still going there, asking questions. Instead, Ash has moved towards East London, in Shoreditch.

It’s a very artsy neighbourhood, quite colourful as well, filled with art galleries, clubs and pubs. There aren’t a lot of elderly living here. As a general rule, Ash tends to avoid young folks, paying special attention to those still attending university. They have a knack for bringing trouble wherever they go. Lads try to prove their masculinity by getting into fights with everyone who dares to look at them. The girls have nothing but degrading comments about their competition that are supposed to make them feel better about themselves.

When he lived on the streets, Ash would focus on targeting the working adults who had more than three hairs on their chest. Families were also his main target.

The young, artsy people living in Shoreditch, however, are an exception. Yes, they’re young, yes most of them are still in university or art school, but as far as he is concerned though, Ash thinks that they’re different. He knows that artists can be haughty or condescending, sometimes even conceited, but that’s a risk he is willing to take. Perhaps he is wrong but he won’t know that for sure if he doesn’t try.

As artists, they understand the great difficulty of finding a job, one that pays enough to provide with everything they could need. They’re also experts on scrimping at the end of each month as they wait, anxious, for money to flourish their thirsty bank accounts. They know what it’s like to be hungry, defeated and cheated.

So, Ash has taken his chance. So far, he is not regretting his choice.

Although, artists are familiar with the hard way of life, a lot of them wear their hearts on their sleeves and are more generous than those rich upper-class men. They don’t hesitate to give as much as they can. Even if it’s such a small amount that seems meaningless, to Ash, it’s worth so much more than words can say.

In three days, he hasn’t earned a lot, but it’s enough to buy some food and a cheap cotton tote bag in which he puts the leftover food he keeps for the upcoming days.

He has yet to have had a negative encounter with anyone. He doesn’t feel safe, but he doesn’t feel unsafe either. It’s a balanced situation. That being said, Ash yearns for the comfort of a flat, of having four walls protecting him from the biting winter wind. It rains a lot and Ash is getting tired of coughing his lungs out every time he breathes in a bit too deep.

He knows it’s only a matter of months before he can save enough money to sublet another flat. In the meantime, he has to suffer in silence and try to be patient.

There is always the possibility to try and lure some men into taking him to their car or flat, but he’d done that before and the experience has left him bitter. Having a flat he called a safe place, maybe a home even, and a regular clientele is what he is good at. Yes, some of his clients are like ruthless predators who enjoy hurting him, but Ash is used to them, knows them. To a certain extent, he even has a feeling they wouldn’t go as far as to kill him. With strangers, he could never be sure because first impressions are often misleading and full of deceit.

Ash is not fond of the idea of getting raped then killed in the backseat of a car then dumped in the Thames or at the back of a dowdy and dingy club. He has some standards, no matter how few they are. Even if his life hasn’t turned out the way he expected it to, he still values it a little. Or, at least enough not to die because of his lack of judgement.

He could work, except he has zero professional experience whatsoever unless being a prostitute counts as one. He didn’t graduate from anywhere, has no diploma and has only kept up with the news by reading the front pages of some magazines. Without a place to sleep and the ability to shower and look like a decent human being, no one would be crazy as to hire him. He should know, he has tried before.

So, he bids his time, hoping that he will soon be able to have another flat and build his clientele back up.

~

Everything changes about a week later.

Ash is staying near the Sainsbury’s on Bethnal Greed Road. The open hours of the business are long and the road is busy. His tote bag is full of food that will last him a few days, maybe a week, and his money is following a slow but steady increase. If he does say so himself, he is not doing too bad. He is even starting to think he will be back in business before Easter next year. It’s a comforting thought.

It’s quite late at night, maybe one or two in the morning, he doesn’t know. The shop has been closed for a few hours now and only clubs and certain pubs remain open. There aren’t that many people out tonight. It’s too cold and Christmas is just around the corner.

Ash sees the occasional hen parties with young women wearing too much make up they look like a pot of paint. They have very few items of clothing that expose more skin than they cover, heels so high they have trouble walking without tripping and the most ridiculous pink accessories Ash has ever seen.

It’s not for him to judge though. Even if tonight they make a point of being extra noisy, they don’t stop to chat with him. Sometimes they do and Ash has to endure slurred speech and high-pitched laughter.

Ash starts drifting in and out of sleep not long after the hen party last walked past his little nest. The sky is pitch black and clear but the lights of the city as well as the Christmas decorations hide the stars above.

At some point, he must give in to sleep because he is woken up by some loud talking voices further down the road. Male voices.

He sits up straighter, pulling the thin, worn-out blanket that a kind soul gave him closer to his face. The tote bag he carries with him is tucked behind him, hidden from view.

As the voices grow closer, they become more distinct. Ash can hear the inebriation lacing their every word. He stays silent, cautious to form one with the wall behind him. He shuffles backwards a bit more when he sees them approaching. They haven’t seen him yet.

It’s not long before the two men spot him. Ash had hoped they would ignore him like most people do and walk past without a glance, but the opposite happens.

The shortest of the two, maybe in his late twenties, sends a quick look his way before he is nudging his friend with his elbow. The other lad, taller and maybe a couple years younger, follows his friend’s eyes. An instant, a wicked smile appears on his face when he makes eye contact with Ash.

Ash is quick to look away, but he knows it’s too late. He stays as still as a statue, hoping that they will change their minds and forget about him. He catches a whisper of words from one of them but isn’t able to understand what has been said. He doesn’t have the time to ponder about it that the sounds of two heavy footsteps stop right in front of him.

“Hey, mate,” one of them says.

It’s a fake cheerful sound and Ash is forced to look up. He can’t ignore them any longer. He glances up through his lashes and offers them a tiny smile.

“Hi, guys. Having a good time?” He asks. He doesn’t care to know but he knows from experience that people who stop to chat like to talk about themselves. That way, he hopes to distract them.

“The best,” the smaller man replies with a toothy grin.

“You know what would make it better?” The second man asks.

“What?”

The two men share a glance. Ash has a feeling he knows where this is going. His stomach churns at the thought.

“If you gave us your wallet,” the short man continues.

“You see, we spent a bit too much on drinks and now we can’t pay for a taxi,” the tall man adds.

“I don’t have a wallet. Sorry, mates.”

It’s not a lie, he doesn’t own one. Somehow, and he should have expected this, it doesn’t seem to matter to the two men. They stare at him, disbelief visible on every inch of their features.

“You must have money,” the tall man counters. He is starting to get angry, his hands curling into fists. “You beg for money every day, surely you have some cash lying around. Come on, don’t be selfish, share with us.”

Before he can formulate an answer, the tall man has grabbed a tight hold of his arm and yanks him to his feet. The strong smell of booze hits his face and Ash scrunches up his nose in disgust. His back gets slammed against the wall, to the left of his little nest.

“Ivor, look through that stinky mess,” the tall man orders, his red-rimmed and blown pupils looking into Ash’s eyes.

From the corner of his mouth, Ivor picks up the blanket and throws it behind him without a second thought. It lands on the road, near the curb. Without the blanket to hide his belongings, it takes Ivor a handful of seconds before he finds the tote bag. He has a peek inside whist shaking the bag before a sudden smile etches on his face. He must have seen the good amount of cash that Ash has been able to save.

“Got it, let’s go.”

The tall man releases his painful grip on Ash’s collar and together they start to walk away.

Ash straightens up, scowling. He goes to stand behind them, in the middle of the pavement. It has happened before, someone robbing him, and that’s why this time Ash won’t go down without a fight. He’s no longer a scared little boy.

“Give it back.”

It works. The two men’s steps falter. They turn around to face him, laughter arising on their faces. Perhaps they’re proud of their little performance.

“Did you say something, wanker?” The tall man snickers. Next to him, Ivor chuckles.

“I said, give it back,” Ash grits out.

“You’re one of them rebellious homeless, eh? This should be fun.”

With a nod of his head towards him, Ivor seems to follow some silent order. He hands the bag to his friend and takes a step closer to him.

Ash is already waiting for him and before Ivor has even had time to lift his arm, Ash’s fist connects with his jaw. His knuckles hurt in the next second but it’s worth it when he sees Ivor stumbling backwards, a hand flying to hold his face. Ash smirks. Good.

The warmth sense of sweet satisfaction flows inside of him. He attacks again before Ivor has regained his balance. This time, Ash punches him in the stomach with enough force to make him double over in pain, a groan escaping him. Ash then launches himself at the second man, in an attempt to snatch the bag from his loose grip.

The tall man moves to the side at the last second. It’s Ash’s turn to stumble but he manages to stay on his feet. When he turns, the tall man has another one of his trademark smirks.

“Oh man, you really shouldn’t have done that.”

Dropping the bag at his feet, the man draws a knife from one of his pockets and starts walking towards Ash with precision and intent clear in his drunken eyes.

Ash backs away. He might be a bit bolder than he had once been but he is not suicidal either. Not yet.

“Just hand over the bag. You don’t have to do this,” he tries to reason, both hands up in surrender.

The man doesn’t answer, preferring to edge towards him until he is close enough that he can throws himself at Ash. The knife is raised in the air, fingers tight around the hilt. Ash moves his arms to protect his face. The knife cuts a long wound on the lower part of his arm, below his elbow.

Instant pains blooms and Ash can already feel thick blood rushing out of the wound.

“Come on, mate, let’s go. We’ve got the money.”

Ivor picks up the discarded bag and starts running away down the street. The tall man has a wicked laugh, glares at Ash then punches him in the face with his free hand. Another swift blow hits his stomach so hard that it knocks the breath out of him. The man spits at Ash’s feet before taking off after his friend.

As soon as they’re gone, Ash lets himself lean against the wall, cradling his throbbing and bleeding arm. He slides down the wall, legs unsteady and wobbly. He struggles to slow his breathing down. Fuck, he thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Besides the obvious agony he feels, not only in his arm but also his aching jaw and stomach, Ash just feels stupid. Plain stupid. He’s managed to lose everything for the second time in almost two weeks.

His eyes start to sting with unshed tears. He blinks a few times, willing them to go away. He will not cry, he will _not_. He can’t. He’s stronger than this.

“Shit, mate, are you alright?”

Ash is startled by a worried female voice. When he looks up, he is met with a young woman who is running towards him, a man trailing behind her.

“I saw what happened. Do you want me to call the cops? Or an ambulance? You’re bleeding quite a bit.”

“No, no,” he gasps. He tries to get up on his shaky legs. “It’s no use, it’s OK.”

It’s far from OK, he knows it and so does the woman but she is kind enough to indulge him.

“Is there anyone you can call?”

He starts to shake his head because ha, no of course there isn’t, but stops himself short. He does in fact have someone he can call. He’d rather do anything than call them, but he’s bleeding and his arm is really sore, and it’s cold out. In all honesty, he just doesn’t have the energy to spend another night sleeping outside on the streets.

He has nothing left. No money, no food, no water. He is back to square one. His eyes burn with tears but he doesn’t let them fall. He feels too vulnerable. The feeling brings back unwanted memories; he’d rather bleach his mind to forget about them than remember.

“Yeah,” he rasps before he can register what he is saying.

“Here, why don’t you call them?” The woman gives him a kind smile that has zero trace of pity.

“Thanks.”

Ash takes the phone she hands him with his injured arm so that he doesn’t smear blood all over the screen. The woman gives him some space so that he has a semblance of privacy.

He pats his trousers’ pockets until he finds the small card he had sworn he would never use. Why he still has it and hasn’t thrown it away yet is a mystery

Looking down at the number at the bottom of the wrinkled card, Ash hesitates for a second. Calling Harry will prove to be a mistake in the long run, he is sure of it, but he’s just been mugged and feeling like the worst human being does strange things to his brain. The last remnants of hesitation vanish long enough to give Ash the strength to dial Harry’s number.

It rings, which is a good start, but as the endless ringing doesn’t stop, it might not be that great. Ash bites his lips, worried that Harry will not pick up. After what feels close to eternity, the ringing stops. The call goes to voicemail. Ash ends the call without leaving a message before dialling the number again.

Just as it’s about to go to the answering machine again, someone answers the call.

“’ello?”

The undeniable deep, husky voice that belongs to Harry sounds sleepy. A small part of him feels guilty about waking him up in the middle of a week night, but it’s so tiny it’s almost non-existent so it’s easy to ignore.

“Harry?” He asks, just to ensure that it is indeed the man himself.

It’s silent on the other side of the line. Then, Ash can hear some rustling before Harry speaks again.

“Ash? Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“What– I didn’t think you’d call.”

“Yeah, I–” Ash sighs and rubs his face, remembering too late that his hand is stained with blood.

“I’m glad you did. How are you? Did something happen?”

“That’s why I’m calling,” Ash says, hesitant. “Does... Does your offer still stands?”

Harry is quiet for a few long seconds. Ash starts to doubt. His hesitation comes back, he shouldn’t have called Harry. It had probably been a polite gesture that hadn’t meant anything.

“Yes” Harry says at last. He clears his throat. “Yes, of course. You’re welcome to stay with me, you know that. Where are you, do you need me to pick you up?”

“That’d be great, yeah. I’m in Shoreditch right now.”

If Harry is surprised or confused, he doesn’t mention it. After asking for his exact location, Harry lets him know he’ll be here in half an hour. Ash disconnects the call and stares at the phone for a while. What has he done?

“Is your friend coming to get you?” The kind woman asks, coming back towards him.

“Oh, um, yeah. Yeah, he is.”

He gives her the phone back and attempts a poor excuse of a smile. He reassures her that he can be left alone, that he’s fine, but the woman is having none of it. She and her silent friend sit beside him. She makes small tall with him, meaningless stuff about herself and London that takes his mind off of the pain in his arm.

Twenty-five minutes later, a black, sleek Mercedes slows down in front of them. Through the window, Ash can make out a tangle of short curls. He gets up, letting the woman know his ride is here. She gives him a hug, seeming not to care about the state he is in or the fact that he hasn’t showered in almost two weeks.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“You’re very welcome. I’ll see you around.”

After one last goodbye, they part ways. Ash watches them leave before making his way to the car waiting for him.

Ash opens the passenger door when he reaches the car. Instant warmth floats towards his face as well as the smell of brand new leather and aftershave. It smells so nice that Ash second guesses his choice when he realises that he will no doubt stain this beautiful car.

“Ash,” Harry gasps. “What happened?”

Only then does Ash acknowledges the man behind the wheel. Harry is wearing a soft looking jumper and baggy tracksuit. It’s the first time Ash has seen Harry in something other than his usual suits. It makes Harry look more normal, more accessible, younger somehow. His hair hasn’t changed in the little time they haven’t seen each other, though his stubble is gone.

“Nothing. Are you sure you want me in your car?”

“What- yes, Ash, of course. Hop in,” Harry frowns, hands still on the wheel.

His green eyes are inquisitive and they don’t look away from him as Ash climbs inside the car and closes the door. He lets out a sigh once he is trapped inside the warm habitat, safe from the cold, winter wind.

Ash is very much aware of the stench radiating off of his body and clothes. For a second, he wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole, but then he remembers that he doesn’t care what Harry thinks. Despite the fact that Harry’s eyes are still glued to him, watching like a hawk. It makes him want to squirm in his seat but he fights the urge off.

He has been living on the streets for close to two weeks, he was bound to become dirty. If Harry is bothered, he shouldn’t have agreed to come pick him up.

“What?” He spits, a bit annoyed by Harry’s eyes on him. The guy is not even blinking and the silent, tensed atmosphere is beginning to make him uncomfortable.

Harry seems to shake himself out of whatever trance he was in.

“Are you badly injured?”

“Just the arm,” he indulges Harry.

Harry hums.

“Let’s get you home. We’ll have a look at that injury.”

He starts the engine who purrs in content, and after checking the side mirror, Harry puts the car in motion.

Ash’s stomach churns at Harry’s choice of words of ‘home’ and ‘we’. It feels wrong somehow, but what else is there for him to do? Despite what he said to Harry, his wound is pretty deep. Blood hasn’t stopped running down his arm. The entire sleeve of his coat is drenched in that sticky blood. Ash is starting to feel dizzy from the loss of blood but he doesn’t want to alert Harry. Besides, once at Harry’s flat, he can take care of the wound on his own. He doesn’t need for Harry to babysit him.

The movements of the car come to a stop and the purring engine is shut off. Ash opens his eyes. They’re parked in a quiet street full of posh buildings on either side of the road. With a quick glance, Ash spots the black, spiky railings, the little balconies – he counts six of them for one building – and the round, small potted trees in front of each entrance.

The whole street screams of expensive cars and rich tenants. He scoffs but covers it up by pretending to cough. Of course, Harry lives here, in one of those luxurious flats. He’s not surprised.

“Come on,” Harry says with a soft voice.

Ash follows him out of the car and towards the entrance number 182. Harry uses a magnetic key to open the door. He pushes it open and lets Ash walk in first.

“I live on the top floor.”

The ground floor is grand and clean with a polished, white and black checkered marbled floor. On the left, a few rows of mailboxes are pinned to the white wall. Opposite them, a large mirror that teases the ceiling with elegant golden edges that curl in the four corners. In front of them is a wide staircase of pristine marbled floor and gold banister.

Ash is pretty certain that the chandelier lighting up the ground floor is real.

They get to the sixth floor in a couple of minutes, Ash panting at the exercise, his thighs burning. When they arrive in the hallway, Ash notices that there is only one door. The golden number twelve is hanging above the doorknob. So, Harry has a whole floor to himself. Ash rolls his eyes at how ridiculous this all is.

The door is in the same mahogany colour as the mailboxes on the ground floor. It’s glossy and the warm, yellow hues of the lighting overhead shine on the wood.

Harry opens the door and steps aside for Ash to walk in first.

As soon as he steps in, Ash’s eyes widen. They’ve arrived straight in an open living room with two huge windows on the left, a brown leather sofa that faces the biggest flat screen TV Ash has ever seen. Underneath the TV, there’s an electronic and modern fireplace that contrasts with the cream coloured walls and the white floor.

On the other side of the room are three little steps that lead down a dining area. The long rectangle of a table that Ash can see seems to be made out of glass and are enhanced by the grey cushioned chairs that sit around the table. The walls over there are light blue and Ash can tell they illuminate and brighten the room even in the darkness of the night.

Ash is not a fan of all the extravagance that comes with a luxurious flat but even he can admit that Harry’s dining room is stunning.

“Welcome to my place,” Harry says, humbled.

“It’s nice,” Ash feels compelled to give him a compliment. “Like the dining room,” he adds with more honesty.

“Thanks,” Harry beams at him.

Harry motions towards the living room and the inviting sofa.

“Please, sit, I’ll go get the first aid kit. Are you hungry? Do you want to drink anything?”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

Harry nods, smiles at him then crosses the living room and dining room, towards an open archway that Ash hadn’t noticed before, maybe the kitchen or a bathroom, he doesn’t know.

Ash stands alone in this big living room. He takes a few tentative steps towards the fireplace, as if scared that Harry would come back to throw him out, telling him it was all a joke. When Harry doesn’t come back with a pitchfork and torch, Ash relaxes the tension of his muscles.

His eyes are attracted to the beautiful mantelpiece adorned with frames of different sizes and shapes. He recognises Harry in all of them, with his cherubic cheeks, dimpled smile and thick, wild curly hair.

In most of the photographs, Harry is standing next to a girl a few years older than him. She has the same smile and chocolate-y hair. In some other photographs, the two siblings are joined by a beautiful woman who is sometimes accompanied by a man. The parents, Ash thinks.

“That’s Gemma, my sister. And that’s my mum and stepdad.”

Ash startles. He hadn’t heard Harry come back to the living room. He turns to him, noticing that Harry has gotten out of his jumper and is wearing a white shirt too big for him that has a hole on his collar. Harry puts the first aid kit on the square coffee table in front of the sofa and invites once again Ash to sit down.

Removing his coat reveals to be a challenge. Ash winces when it brushes against his injured arm. He sits next to Harry on the sofa and holds his arm out. Amidst all the blood, he can tell that the sleeve of his jumper is torn and needs to be thrown out.

Harry takes his arm with delicate hands and pushes the sleeve up his arm, away from the wound. It’s hard to miss the deep gash that’s a few inches long. It begins just below his elbow and stops halfway down his arm, above his wrist.

“I’m going to clean the wound first, then disinfect it and then we’ll put a bandage. Is that alright?”

Harry looks him in the eyes, searching for any sign that would indicate that Ash is not comfortable with Harry’s plan. He doesn’t find any resistance.

“OK,” he whispers.

He gets to work in silence. It’s too quiet in the flat, the whole building seems to be stuck in an eerie silence. Not even cars are driving past in the street.

“I’m applying the disinfectant now,” Harry warns.

A second later, Ash is hissing at the burning sensation from the alcohol. His arm shakes and he is half tempted to pull it away but he sinks his teeth in his bottom lip instead.

“Sorry.”

Ash shakes his head.

“It’s fine.”

Now that most of the blood has been cleaned, the wound doesn’t look as awful as he first thought. It’s still quite deep but nothing unbearable.

“Ash, what happened?”

Harry’s voice is quiet, soft, but Ash hears him anyway. He watches Harry work on his arm in silence, debating if he should lie or give a half truth.

“Please, don’t say ‘nothing’. You wouldn’t have called me if that was true.”

“I got mugged.”

It’s out of his mouth before he can swallow the words back down. Harry’s eyes snap up to his, his hands stilling above his arm.

“It’s fine,” he hurries to say before Harry has had time to even open his mouth.

“No, it’s not fine, Ash. Jesus, you could’ve died. Actually, you’re lucky that they didn’t hurt you more than that.”

“It’s fine. They got what they wanted, it’s no big deal. It’s happened before. Besides, it’s not as if I didn’t defend myself.”

He shrugs but his false nonchalance doesn’t appease the tension in Harry’s shoulders nor the dark look in his eyes and the tilt of his mouth.

“They stole your money.”

Ash nods in spite of the statement.

“Yeah.”

He looks away then because Harry’s gaze on him is too much.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“Because if I had insisted you come live with me, you wouldn’t have been hurt.”

Harry is frowning as he wraps Ash’s arm in a tight bandage. Ash doesn’t say anything to that. One, because he doesn’t know what to say so that Harry will stop looking like a woeful kitten, and two, because he doesn’t comfort people.

It takes a few more minutes for Harry to finish bandaging him. When he’s done, Ash moves his right arm, testing the waters. There’s a dull throbbing pain under the bandage but nothing he can’t ignore.

“Thanks,” he rasps out.

Harry smiles at him before pointing in a general direction behind him.

“I’ll go run you a bath so you can wash the rest of the blood. Be mindful of the bandage, yeah?”

Harry gives him another smile, gets up with the kit in his hands and disappears behind the archway past the dining table. Ash is left to stare after him, brows pinched together, deep in thought.

No one is as nice as Harry just for the sake of being nice, and certainly not to someone they don’t even know. It’s been a couple years since they first met, but even then, Harry knew nothing about him, not his age or real name.

His scowl deepens the longer he lets his brain think. Harry has been his client for a long time now. Ash is sure that Harry must miss his services, perhaps that’s even why Harry offered him his spare bedroom in the first place, so that he can use Ash for his personal gain.

Part of him realises how obscure and so unlike the Harry he has got to know this all is, but he’s too far gone in his own head, imagining conspiracies, for any rational thought to make sense.

That is why, when Harry comes back to the room, talking some nonsense about bath salts and flavoured soap, the words dies on his tongue when he glances at Ash. A very naked Ash.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, surprised.

With a look too blank to be casual and no emotion, Ash shrugs.

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? So you can have your way with me whenever you want, right? Help yourself.”

Even to his own ears, he sounds bored and lifeless, like it’s a chore rather than a pleasure. The surprise on Harry’s face merges into confusion. Despite the fact that Harry’s eyes roam up and down his body, he still hasn’t made a move to claim and ravish him. Ash thinks it’s because his body is grim, dirty and unattractive after spending two weeks on the streets.

“Come on,” he presses Harry. “I know you want to.”

Harry shakes his head but he still hasn’t averted his eyes. Ash doesn’t miss the little swipe of tongue across his lips. Harry starts to walk towards him, closing the distance between them. Ash waits in silence, unmoving, until Harry stops in front of him.

He thinks that this is it, that Harry will give in and reveal his true nature, but Harry is doing nothing other than watching his naked skin, arms limp at his sides. Then, as slow as a snail, Harry bends down to pick up the clothes that Ash tossed on the floor. Harry doesn’t look away from his eyes when he hands the clothes to Ash.

“No, Ash. I don’t have an ulterior motive, that’s not why I asked you to stay. When we have sex, it’ll be because you want to, not because you feel forced to strip naked to please me.”

Ash narrows his eyes.

“How do you expect me to pay you, then? I have no money.”

Allowing Harry to continue using his services is the only solution that Ash is able to come up with in a short period of time. The emotion on Harry’s face is hard to read. If he had to guess, Ash would say that perhaps Harry is sorrowful yet determined. Ash has no idea what is going on in his brain or why he is pushing him away. Harry’s eyes are too green and too shiny and they seem to see right through him.

“Ash, I’ve never expected you to pay me in any kind of way. Like I said before, I have a spare bedroom that you can use. I am not going to take advantage of you, I’m not that kind of person.”

It’s the harshest Ash has ever heard Harry speaks. It stuns him a little.

“If it’s too much for you, you can go but I’d like it if you stayed.”

They have a silent staring contest for a long time. Ash admires Harry’s patience, a trait that he lacks, though he’d never admit it to the man himself. Maybe it’s because he’s tired and cold, or maybe it’s because part of him believes Harry, or maybe because he’s feeling vulnerable, injured and naked in front of Harry’s unwavering gaze, but Ash has a brief nod.

He agrees to stay. He isn’t sure that Harry has seen it but with the intense way he is looking at him still, he does. Harry exhales a shaky breath before bowing his head.

“Alright. Do you still want a bath?”

Ash nods again.

“Follow me.”

They walk past the dining room and through the tall archway. It leads to a spacious kitchen where Ash spots an open-plan counter with three bar stools on the other side. They cross the kitchen too fast for him to pay a lot of attention to his surroundings.

There’s a hallway to the side of the kitchen with a few doors. At the end of the hallway, a staircase that leads to a second floor. Harry points to the lonely door on the left.

“That’s my bedroom. It has an en-suite so you don’t have to worry about sharing a bathroom. The door opposite is your bedroom,” he indicates to the door on the right.

They stop at the end of the hallway, before the staircase, at the second door on the right which Harry announces is Ash’s bathroom.

The light is already on and water is running inside an impressive bathtub with gold taps and showerhead. It could fit two or three of him and there’s a step to climb in the tub. The tub sits in the middle of the room and there’s a small table next to it.

On the right is a countertop with a double sink and two large, round mirrors above. The toilets are on the left, hidden by a little wall for some privacy.

Just like the living room, the floor is cold and as white as snow. The lights are dimmed and the flames of the candles spread around the room flicker. It gives an intimate and relaxed atmosphere.

It smells good, too, like roses yet Ash spots no flowers. He walks up to the bathtub, humming the air and rejoices in the warmth emanating from the water. He shivers then frowns when he sees the pink water.

He turns to Harry, eyebrows raised.

“Why is the water pink, Harold?”

He hadn’t meant to pass it off as a joke, but Harry chuckles anyway, eyes crinkling at the side.

“It’s the bath salts.”

“Did you take me for a Disney princess?”

Harry has a loud bark of a laugh that he is quick to cover with his hand. Ash quirks an eyebrow at him. That was the last reaction he expected Harry to have.

“Trust me, I definitely don’t see you as a Disney princess. You’re quite the opposite.”

“So I’m a villain?”

“No, I was thinking one of those handsome princes.”

Ash gives him a flat look which has Harry clear his throat in return.

“Anyway, I’ve put some fresh and clean pyjamas over there by the sink. There’s a pack of new toothbrushes under the sink as well as clean towels. I’ll leave you to it. You remember where your bedroom is?”

Ash’s first instinct is to tell him to bugger off because he is no child and is far from stupid but he refrains himself from doing so.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Harry smiles. “If there’s anything you need, you know where my bedroom is. Goodnight, Ash.”

Harry gives him another smile then crosses the bathroom to get to the door. He is in the process of closing it when Ash speaks up.

“Louis.”

Harry stops and lifts his head, frowning.

“Pardon?”

“Louis,” Ash repeats. “That’s my name.”

Realisation dawns on Harry’s face. His eyes soften and a tiny, private smile pulls at his lips.

“Louis,” Harry tests, the name rolling off his tongue in two distinct syllables. “I like it. Enjoy your bath, Louis. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Once the door is closed, Louis goes to lock it before stepping into the warm bathtub. The water is too hot and it turns his skin almost the same pink, but man does it feel good, Louis thinks.

He sinks all the way in until the pink water covers his mouth and tickles the tip of his nose. His lids are too heavy, they decide to close of their own accord. His body relaxes. Louis hasn’t felt this at peace in a very long time.

The events of the past couple of weeks have taken their toll on him and have exhausted him, both on a physical and mental level.

When he jerks awake for the fourth time, Louis decides it’s time to get out. The pink water has long since faded in favour of a murky brownish colour, the result of all the grime his body has amassed whilst on the streets.

Louis makes a disgusted face then hurries to pull the plug out and get out of the bath. The fluffy cream towel that he finds under the sink is two times too big, but it wraps him up in a warm and snug embrace, and that’s all he needs.

After brushing his teeth, marvelling at the fresh, minty smell of his breath, Louis puts on the check cotton pyjamas that Harry laid out in between the two sinks. Out of curiosity Louis checks the tag and scoffs when he sees it’s from John Lewis. He floats a bit in the pyjamas but after rolling the sleeves at his ankles and wrists, it’s sort of alright.

Louis exits the bathroom as quiet as he can and walks down the hallway on his tip toes. Harry’s bedroom door is closed and Louis can’t hear anything, not that he is listening. He enters the spare bedroom which he refuses to call his own. He doesn’t look around much, just enough to spot the large double bed before he crawls under the cool duvet.

Almost as soon as Louis’ head hits the pillows and his body settles on the comfortable mattress, he falls asleep.

~

It has been such a long time since Louis has been able to have a peaceful and quiet night. In fact, he thinks the last time must have been before _it_ happened. Since then, his nights have never been the same.

He feels well rested when he wakes up in the morning albeit disoriented. There’s a faint light coming from the closed white curtains on his left. For a second there, he wonders where the heck he is before the memories from the night before come back to him. Right, he thinks. He’d accepted Harry’s proposal to stay in his flat.

Louis takes the time to stretch his sore muscles then cracks his back and knuckles before dragging himself out of that sinful bed. If it wasn’t for the fact that his stomach hasn’t stopped growling in hunger, he would have stayed in this bed for the rest of his days.

As it is, Louis ventures outside the room and into the corridor. Harry’s door is still closed so he heads towards the kitchen. Just like he had seen the previous night, the kitchen is vast and spacious with an island and three bar stools standing in front of it with their backs to the archway.

Every appliance that Louis can see is modern and must have cost a fortune. It all looks very clean as if the kitchen is never used. How has Harry managed to afford a flat like that in Central London when he hasn’t been a working professional for very long?

Speaking of Harry, where is he?

Louis has a quick look in the dining and living room but the man is nowhere to be seen. He shrugs and walks back to the kitchen, in search of some much needed food.

There’s a wooden door on the opposite side of the kitchen that leads to a large larder. The shelves are stocked with different kinds of bread and tins. There is a spice rack that’s almost half his size and most of the spices, Louis has never heard of them and a wine collection that takes an entire wall.

Louis picks up a loaf of bread that smells like heaven and looks like it has been cooked the day before. It’s still moist inside, so much that Louis starts salivating before he has even taken a bite. In the fridge, there is some apricot marmalade and pressed orange juice that pretends to be organic.

Bringing his feast to the kitchen island, Louis searches the cupboards for plates, glasses and cutlery. Once he has found everything he needs, he starts his breakfast and is not guilty for devouring half of the bread.

It’s when he’s in the process of making himself a cup of Yorkshire tea – the good, expensive kind, not the cheap low quality brand he finds in Aldi or Lidl – that a commotion followed by a frightened scream make him jump.

“Who are you? What are you doing in Mr. Styles’ kitchen?”

As more questions keep coming at him, Louis feels the start of a headache coming. He turns around to find a petite woman with chubby cheeks and black hair, waving a threatening feathery duster at him.

The sight is ridiculous, it almost makes him laugh, but the suspicious look on the woman’s face prevents him.

“I’ve asked you a question. Are you a thief? Turn out your pockets, show me what you’ve stolen,” she orders with a strict frown.

Louis glances down at the pyjamas he is still wearing which don’t have any pocket.

“I’m no thief, I live here.”

He frowns as he says it, words uncertain. Saying this doesn’t feel right. His stomach is queasy from the lie. The woman picks up on his hesitation and attacks him like a hungry shark.

“Do you, now? Funny how I’ve never seen you before and I’ve worked for Mr. Styles since he moved here.”

“Well, considering the man himself drove me here last night, you know,” he shrugs.

“How would you know Mr. Styles?” The woman asks him, hands on her hips.

“Listen, woman,” Louis cringes because he knows he is being disrespectful but she’s attacking him without any proof. Besides, he hasn’t had his cuppa yet and that always makes him cranky. “I’ve just woken up and I haven’t had a cup of tea yet so why don’t you go back to cleaning and pretend that I’m not here?”

The woman’s eyes narrow down to two tiny slots it’s a wonder she is able to see him. She steps closer into the kitchen, pointing the duster in his direction. Louis has to admit that for such a small woman, she is intimidating. Not that he is intimidated himself, of course.

“Sit, don’t move. I’m calling Mr. Styles.”

Louis sighs but obliges to avoid the other round of fight which is sure to happen should he not do as told. He walks around the kitchen island, plopping himself down on a bar stool. He wonders why Harry hasn’t told his maid about him if she is coming to his flat every day.

The woman whose name he still doesn’t know leaves the kitchen. She comes back soon enough with a home phone in her hand. She dials a number, lifts the phone to her ear and waits.

“Mr. Styles, it’s Agnes. I apologise for the inconvenience,” she gives Harry a much warmer and nicer welcome than when she saw Louis. “Oh, no I’m fine, don’t you worry. I was calling to let you know about this strange man who claims to live here.”

He doesn’t hear Harry’s answer but from the way Agnes’s frown dissipates, Louis figures that Harry is explaining the truth, or part of the truth. Agnes hums and nods a few times.

“Of course, Mr. Styles,” she says then hands him the phone. “He would like to speak with you.”

“Yeah?” He says into the phone.

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Agnes shaking her head at him, maybe because of his poor manners. Not that he cares.

“Louis, I am so sorry,” Harry rushes to say. “I completely forgot to let Agnes know about you.” He sounds way more apologetic than the situation requires.

“Calm down, Harold. It’s not as if she’s killed me. Yet,” he adds in an undertone. It’s no use because Agnes hears him anyway and her distasteful frown makes a comeback.

“She’s a harmless woman,” Harry chuckles. “Most of the time.”

“It’s not you she was threatening with a ridiculous rainbow duster. Why do you even own such thing?”

Harry laughs, bright and loud. Louis moves the phone away from his ear until Harry stops laughing.

“I’m sure you would have been able to defend yourself, Louis. You’re a strong man.”

Louis hums but doesn’t answer. Harry clears his throat. Louis can hear the smile in his next words.

“Anyway, I should be home in a few hours, four maybe. Let Agnes know if you’re hungry, she can cook you something.”

Louis is not certain he trusts the woman not to poison the food she’d serve him though he keeps his thought to himself.

“Wait, four hours, you said?”

“It’s already one, Louis.”

“Oh.”

He has slept longer than he had thought when he woke up.

“Alright, I have to go. I will see you later, Louis.”

Harry hangs up without waiting for an answer. Louis puts the phone down on the counter then goes to make the cup of tea he’s dreamt about for weeks.

“I’ll be sure to keep an eye on you,” Agnes warns him.

“If that makes you happy.”

As soon as his tea is ready, Louis retreats to the spare bedroom. He drinks his tea while looking out the window, at the street which is a bit more busy than last night.

Soon though, boredom becomes impossible to ignore so he goes to explore the flat. He can hear Agnes shuffling around in the kitchen, catches a glimpse of her so he turns towards the staircase at the end of the corridor. He climbs the staircase, curious as to what lies upstairs.

When he gets to the last step, Louis realises that it’s pretty much the same as downstairs: a corridor and a few doors, and at the end, an archway that leads to another room.

He opens the first door on the right and is met with all sorts of indoor gym equipment from a treadmill to a pull up bar to different sizes of weights to a rowing machine. A groan leaves his mouth at the sight. He is prompt to close the door. Exercising has never been his strong suit.

Louis moves on to the door opposite the gym but he finds it locked. He twists the doorknob a few times but the door still refuses to budge. It piques his curiosity. What could Harry be so ashamed of that he has to lock the door?

The second door on the left is more to his liking. Inside the room, hundreds upon hundreds of books occupy every inch of space on the shelves. There’s a brown leather seat and an ottoman in the middle of the room on top of a rug. On the right side of the room is a large desk, and on top of it, a typewriter sits in the centre like a majestic king.

Louis walks closer to the desk and sits on the leather chair that squeaks beneath his thighs. His fingers are light as they trail on the immaculate wood. Despite the luxuriant furniture and typewriter that has never been used, it’s a nice room, quite cosy.

The tall window to his right opposite the door basks the room in a natural light that is enough to be able to read without adding artificial lighting. It makes him want to read so he stands up and scans the shelves of books, reading all the different titles.

There’s every book imaginable, from fiction to fantasy to thriller and horror to classic literature and children’s books, to non-fiction and science books and encyclopaedias and, oh God, even the Bible. There’s a whole section dedicated to French literature and another one for American literature.

Louis is a bit clueless in front of all these titles. He recognises only a few of them. He settles for _After Dark_ by a Japanese author named Murakami. He’s never heard of it but then again, he hasn’t read many books in his life.

He’s just settled in the seat facing the window when Agnes interrupts him. Again. Louis has an internal scream at her timing.

“What do you think you’re doing? These are Mr. Styles’ books,” Agnes exclaims.

Louis is not above rolling his eyes, not caring if he looks like a petulant child; sometimes he feels like one too.

“Yeah, I figured as much,” he replies without looking up from the open book in his hands.

“You need to be very careful with those,” Agnes chastises him like he is indeed a child. “Some of them are old copies.”

“I think I can handle a book or two,” Louis snaps.

The more Agnes goes on to talk about Harry like he is some kind of modern God or something, the less Louis is willing to listen. He ends up closing the book shut with a bit more force than he’d intended when it’s become clear that Agnes won’t stop talking his ear off about each and every book in this library.

“Fine,” he says at last. He puts the book back on the shelf where he found it. “There, happy?”

Louis storms off before he hears Agnes’s reply. He walks past the archway at the end of the corridor but stops dead in his tracks. His eyes widen in surprise, because Harry is not just rich, he’s super rich, a millionaire even, if the indoor pool in front of him is anything to go by. Who even has a pool in their London flat?

The long rectangle full of water takes a fair portion of space and is surrounded by a grey stoned floor. There are some fancy looking white lounge chair on one side of the pool and opposite, on the left, the furthest away from the tall windows, a hot tub. Louis even spots a mini-bar in the corner of the room and a couple bar stools. Behind the tall floor to ceiling windows is a balcony.

“Fucking rich man,” Louis mutters to himself, shaking his head.

He walks towards the window and slides them open before stepping outside. The balcony is rather small compared to the rest of the flat. There’s a lover’s seat on the right, overlooking a patch of green grass that Louis supposes is a private garden, with a couple of soft cushions and a blanket.

Some potted plants are on the other side of the balcony, on either side of some steps that lead to the roof. It takes him no more than five seconds before deciding that hiding on the roof is a good idea.

Grabbing the blanket, Louis climbs the steps. The roof is big enough to host a small garden party. Fairy lights are hanging everywhere. There are some sofas and chairs under a wide tent to protect them from the weather and rain, and a grill is beside them.

Louis sits on the edge of the wall, blanket tight around his body in order to keep the cold away. Below his dangling legs, he sees the quiet street and some cars that drive past every now and then.

“You’re not planning on jumping, are you?”

Louis startles at the voice and almost falls down the building. A pair of hands full of rings grab his waist and stop him from meeting his early death. Harry makes sure that he won’t fall before letting go of him. He leans his back against the wall, his head turned to Louis.

“Not yet, no. Why, are you going to push me?”

“Now that I’ve got you to live with me? Never,” Harry chuckles. He looks solemn though, as if he does mean it.

“Why are you back so soon?” Louis asks. Last time they spoke, Harry said he wouldn’t be back until five.

“It’s already half four, Louis, and I had a couple of errands to run so I figured I’d leave early today.

“Mm.”

He hadn’t noticed that it was so late though when he glances up at the sky, he is surprised to find it has turned black.

“How are you? How’s the arm?” Harry asks him after a few minutes have passed.

“Fine, I guess. I didn’t check,” he adds when Harry frowns at him.

“Could I have a look? We should change your bandage as well,” Harry suggests.

“Alright.”

They go back inside the flat, Harry leading them to the spare bedroom. He goes to get the first aid kid whilst Louis waits on the bed.

The wound looks pretty much the same as the day before. Harry cleans it and puts on a fresh bandage.

“Agnes not here?” Louis asks when Harry is done.

Harry shakes his head.

“I’m sorry about her. She is very protective and it’s always been just me here, so she’s cautious with strangers.”

Louis hums.

“So, I’ve got you a couple things,” Harry says. He doesn’t quite meet Louis’ eyes and for good reasons. He knows that Louis never accepts Harry’s gifts.

“I don’t want you to buy me anything, Harry,” Louis says in a harsh tone. He gets off the bed and goes to stand by the window, away from Harry.

The space between them helps him breathe a bit better.

“I know you hate to be dependent on other people but I’m sorry to say that you need new clothes. Yours are torn and they don’t even fit, don’t think I haven’t noticed. I promise that I didn’t go overboard.”

Harry leaves the room and comes back with four shopping bags in his hands. He sets them on the bed and invites Louis to take a look.

“Errands to run, my arse,” Louis growls under his breath.

Harry hears him and lets out the loudest honk of a laugh Louis has ever heard. It makes him scowl at him before he opens the bags.

There’s three jumpers and the same amount of shirts. One pair of tracksuits bottoms, two pair of jeans as well as socks and pants and a pair of brand new shoes.

“Alright, you didn’t go overboard,” Louis admits with reluctance. He had feared much worse. Harry smirks at him as if he knows his exact thoughts. “But it’s still too much,” Louis insists. “I don’t want your charity, I’m not a charity case or a good deed for you to make you feel better with yourself.”

Harry frowns. Louis can’t decipher the look in eyes but he figures that Harry doesn’t like what he’s said.

“Louis, I have never seen or thought of you as a charity case. I don’t mind buying you stuff because you need them. I couldn’t possibly let you stark naked in the middle of winter just because you’re stubborn and refuse my help. And before you say anything, no you are not taking advantage of me. Sometimes, you just need someone to help you and that’s more than OK. I’d like to be that someone.”

Louis struggles to maintain the eye contact when Harry is staring at him with so much intent as if he wants, begs Louis to understand what he is saying. Louis hears him, hears him well even, but it doesn’t make it any less hard.

For so long he has had to fend for himself. He’s always refused anyone’s help, he’s always said no. Well, until now, at least.

He clears his throat when it feels too tight, his face burning in embarrassment.

“Thanks, I guess,” he relents. “Just, don’t buy me anything else.”

“Very well,” Harry nods. “If you change your mind though, come to me.” He stands. “Can I do anything else for you before dinner?”

Louis shakes his head.

“Actually,” he remembers. “Could you tell Agnes to lay off my back? She wouldn’t even let me read your books, kept going on and on about how precious they are,” Louis rolls his eyes.

“You like to read?” Harry sounds and looks surprised.

“Yes, I do. I went to school, you know. I can read, I’m not an illiterate,” Louis defends himself. He crosses his arms on his chest, offended.

“That’s not what I thought,” Harry replies. He smiles until his dimples pop out. “I will pass the message. There’s plenty of books to keep you occupied.”

“Thanks.” He is more genuine this time as he thanks Harry. Harry’s smile broadens until his eyes crinkle. Louis looks away.

“Anytime, Louis, I mean it. Dinner is at seven.”

Harry waves goodbye then closes the door behind him.

Louis checks the clothes that Harry bought but can’t find any price tag. Harry must have removed them, somehow knowing that Louis would refuse to wear them if he knew how much they had cost. It can only mean that they are overpriced and it makes him uncomfortable just to touch them.

The bags are from Harrods and when Louis double checks the brands of the clothes, he realises that most of them were bought in Ralf Lauren, the other part in Hugo Boss.

“Rich bastard,” Louis mumbles to himself.

~

On Saturday morning, Louis is surprised to see Harry sitting at the kitchen island. He’s reading a newspaper, sipping on a cup of coffee and breakfast in front of him.

Louis scoffs, he didn’t know people did that anymore.

“No work today?” He asks as he makes a beeline towards the kettle.

It’s become his little ritual. He gets up, has a cup of tea then breakfast. Then, he spends most of his day upstairs in the library. True to his word, Harry has spoken to Agnes and since Wednesday, she’s left Louis in peace. He hears her sometimes and sees her head poking through the door, perhaps to make sure Louis isn’t setting the place on fire.

At first, it was awkward, living with Harry and staying in Harry’s flat while the man is away at work. Louis soon realised that he doesn’t see Harry that much and has nothing to worry about. Harry is always gone by the time Louis wakes up and he comes back just before dinner, sometimes even later than that.

The first day Harry came back early must have been an exception.

They have dinner together most nights then Harry settles in the living room to watch TV and relax after a long day at work. He always invites Louis to join him but Louis refuses. He doesn’t want to spend unnecessary time with Harry. It still feels wrong to be here.

So, yeah, Louis is alone most of the time. If it wasn’t for Agnes making dinner for two each night or the personal photographs on the mantelpiece, Louis would think he was living alone.

“Good morning, Louis,” Harry greets him with a smile. He lowers the newspaper on the table and focuses his attention on Louis. “I thought I’d take the day off.”

“Just like that?” Louis asks, sceptical.

“Mm. Yes.”

“What is it that you do again?” Louis realises that he’s never asked. He doesn’t care what Harry does but he is curious as to what brings Harry so much money.

“I work for Simply Green.”

Louis raises both eyebrows and turns towards Harry as he waits for his tea to brew.

“What, that big eco company?” Even Louis knows about it.

“Yes, do you know it?” Harry is smiling though there is a look on his face that is impossible to read. Louis doesn’t try.

“I’m pretty sure everyone knows about it, Harold. It’s hard not to.”

“It’s mostly online, though.” Harry seems cautious, as if he is treading on light water.

“Yeah, so? I read about it in the newspapers. That company has been mentioned in every bloody magazine of the country.”

“Oh.”

Louis narrows his eyes at him.

“I know what you’re thinking. You can’t hide anything with that frog face of yours.”

Harry’s face breaks into a big grin.

“Frog face ? That’s not very nice, Louis.” His light voice and expression tell him otherwise. “What do you think I was thinking?”

“That I’m too poor to own a laptop and therefore wouldn’t be able to know about that company. That’s very true but it doesn’t mean I never kept up to date with the news.” Louis gives him a pointed look. He is just a bit offended.

The tip of Harry’s ears flush pink, letting him know that he was right.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t.”

That surprises Louis when he says it so fast because it is true. He isn’t uncomfortable, for some reason. Harry smiles, though it‘s smaller, more secretive.

“Could I take you somewhere?” Harry asks suddenly.

Louis’ brows furrow. He takes a sip of his tea, his sharp eyes boring into Harry’s green ones.

“No,” He says after a few seconds, harsh and defensive.

He thought Harry had understood that Louis doesn’t want anything from him, doesn’t want to get close to him, not if he can help it. Louis has been avoiding spending time with Harry for the past few days, there’s no way Harry hasn’t understood. Harry is very intelligent, there’s no hint that he is anything but smart.

So it takes him by surprise and Louis finds himself angry at Harry for thinking that just because Louis has accepted to stay, it means Harry can take him out. It’s the opposite.

“Not on a date,” Harry explains, trying to soothe Louis’ growing rage with his soft voice.

Louis hates that it works. A little.

“What then?”

“Just an outing,” Harry says.

“We’re not friends,” Louis reminds him because it seems that Harry has forgotten.

“I know that, Louis.”

Louis stares at him, half hidden behind his cup. Harry is looking back, expression open and honest.

“What would we do?” He asks after a minute of staring.

“It’s a surprise.”

“You make it sound like a date,” Louis scoffs. “My answer is still no.”

“Louis, I’m not asking you out on a date. You will know when I do,” he says, too confident for his own good. “There’s somewhere I want to go and I thought you’d like to join me, that’s all.”

“Fine,” Louis sighs because he knows that should he continue arguing with Harry, the man would pester him until Louis gives in. Harry is cunning when he wants to be.

Harry gets up after downing the last of his coffee. He puts the cup in the dishwater before smiling at Louis.

“Great,” he says, proud of himself. “We leave in thirty minutes.”

Half an hour later, Louis is sitting in the passenger seat of Harry’s Mercedes. They’re stuck in traffic already and it hasn’t been long since they left, just under ten minutes. Louis doesn’t comment anything though he does think there is no use for a car when you live in London, less so if it’s Central London.

The radio has been turned off since they got in and the first song they heard was a Christmas one and Louis flipped.

It takes them around forty-five minutes to reach Harry’s destination. Harry parks in a side street then exits the car. Louis follows after him, clueless as to where they’re going.

It’s not until they reach the main road that Louis realises where Harry intends to go.

“A tree market? You’re going to get a Christmas tree?”

Louis stops walking then, not caring about the person behind him who curses at him. There is no chance that he will do anything that has a connection with Christmas. Harry notices that Louis has stopped walking a bit too late and backtracks down the pavement, sending some apologies to people he runs into.

“Yes,” he says when he gets to Louis. “I don’t have one yet and Christmas is next Saturday. Thought we could choose one together.”

“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” Louis says with a frown.

He bites his lips to prevent himself from revealing too much. Harry shouldn’t even know about that, it’s not his concern.

“Oh,” Harry says a beat too late. He is frowning and his mouth is turned down into a suspicious pout, Louis thinks. “I didn’t know that, I’m sorry. I don’t want to go against your religion,” he adds, his voice soft.

“I’m not religious,” Louis says and honestly, he should learn to keep his mouth shut.

Harry looks at him, puzzled.

“Then I don’t understand,” he says, scratching his chin. “Why don’t you celebrate Christmas?”

Louis would rather go back to the streets than have a heart to heart with Harry, or anyone if he’s honest. That’s not a conversation he ever wants to have.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry. You will tell me in your own time and if you feel like it,” Harry says, too gentle, when Louis is taking too long to answer.

Louis hides his hands in the pockets of his jeans, willing the shaking to stop, and looks away, towards the banner that says ‘Christmas Tree Forest’. Beyond the railings, there are rows upon rows of green Christmas trees, waiting to be picked up and brought home.

“For someone who works for an eco company, I would have thought that buying a Christmas tree would be against all of your values.” Louis tries to sound casual, unaffected, in an effort to steer the focus away from him.

If Harry suspects anything – Louis is far from being a master at subtlety – he indulges Louis and plays into his little game. He has a light chuckle and a shake of his head.

“I’ll have you know that whether or not you buy a Christmas tree, it doesn’t change much for the planet. Christmas trees are crops, and this is a local and sustainable business which is so much better than buying a tree that has been shipped from somewhere in Europe. And, Christmas Tree Forest plants a tree for every tree that they sell. It’s a win-win,” Harry concludes with a happy smirk, proud of his little explanation.

Louis cracks the tiniest smile but hides it behind a hand, feigning a yawn.

“Louis,” Harry calls for him. He waits until he has Louis’ attention before he continues. “You can wait in the car if that’s easier for you, or I don’t have to get a Christmas tree at all, if that would make you too uncomfortable.”

Harry is sincere and doesn’t seem to resent him. There is no trace of sadness or disappointment in his features. Instead, his expression is open, as if he does understand where Louis is coming from.

A sigh escapes Louis’ mouth. It would be so easy to agree with Harry and ask him not to get a Christmas tree but it also wouldn’t be fair. Since their meeting, since moving into Harry’s spare bedroom, the man has been nothing but kind and appropriate. He leaves Louis the space that he needs to adjust to this new, very strange, life.

It would be a poor way to repay Harry’s kindness by refusing him to have a normal Christmas like a normal person. Plus, it seems as if Harry would do anything that Louis asks him without hesitation. Louis might put himself before anyone else but he is not cruel, could never be.

“OK,” Louis says at last.

“OK, what?” Harry asks with caution.

“We can go get you your tree.”

The smile that stretches Harry’s facial muscles is enough to lighten a whole room. His white teeth are showing and his dimples seem to be carved even deeper in his cheeks.

Louis feels uneasy as he looks at Harry. There’s too much warmth and happiness radiating off him. It’s disturbing, to say the least. He doesn’t know how to act or what to say, he just wants to flee from the power of Harry’s gaze.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts. “Let’s go before all that’s left is the skimpy trees that no one wants.”

He starts walking away.

“We wouldn’t want that, now would we?” Harry chuckles.

Louis can almost see his crinkled eyes and bright smile, even as he walks a step ahead of him. He shakes his head, tries to fight the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips but it’s a long lost battle. He’ll be damned if he lets Harry see it though, so he hurries up.

“Guess not.”

They arrive at the entrance. At the back, right in front of them, is a rather large tent with what looks to be a white van just behind. Under the tent, some workers are wrapping Christmas trees for families or happy couples.

On either side of the tent, a forest of trees all different from one another. Some are tall and limp, some are small and sturdy, others are too bushy, some not enough. Everywhere Louis looks, he is met with dozens of people who are debating which tree is the best, which is the one.

It’s all a bit too much and confusing to Louis. He tends to avoid going places where he knows lots of people are gathering so he can’t help but slow his walk down.

Perhaps Harry senses his discomfort, or maybe he sees it written on his face, in his stiff shoulders, because he points to a smaller trail on the right. It’s less crowded and Louis is able to regulate his breathing.

They wander amongst the trees at a slow pace. Louis’ gaze is glued to his new shoes that are too spotless and pretty. He’s agreed to be here, that’s enough for one day. If Harry wants a tree, he can choose it on his own.

Harry seems content though, doesn’t seem to mind the silence. He’s whistling a tune that Louis has never heard before, his eyes scanning the trees they pass, searching for the right fit. Louis wonders if Harry is evaluating them and visualising them in his living room. A mental picture would help to choose the correct tree, he knows.

That’s what Louis used to do at least, when he’d go get a Christmas tree. He’d spend a crazy amount of time searching the trees, visualising them by the fireplace. If they didn’t fit the perfect picture he had in his mind, he’d move on to the next one.

A nostalgic smile creeps upon his face, forcing him to let down his guard. He is not quick enough to eradicate it from his mouth when he catches Harry glancing at him. Harry doesn’t mention it though which Louis is grateful about even if he doesn’t say it. Somehow, the silence says enough for Harry to understand.

“What about that one?” Harry asks out of the blue.

He is pointing to a medium-sized tree, which is just a bit taller than Louis, with a bit too much branches. The tree is leaning to the side, seeming unable to stay upright when Harry lets go of it after his inspection. Louis grimaces.

“Really?” He doesn’t mean to sound condescending.

Harry shrugs and pets the tree branches. Louis thinks that Harry is either a tree whisperer or just plain crazy. He opts for the latter which is more likely.

“What’s wrong with it?”

Louis gives him an unimpressed look. Harry answers with a cheeky smile.

“Come on, tell me,” Harry insists.

Louis sighs and takes a step closer, examining the tree with scrutiny.

“You can’t be serious Harold. This tree is fat and not straight – oh shut up that was not intended, you dork. Sure, it’s bushy but look at the needles, they’re dry, have lost their colour and a quarter of them are already gone. It’d be a waste of money. Besides, it wouldn’t look good in your flat.”

“Would it not?” Harry looks far too amused but Louis pretends he can’t see it.

“Not when you live in fucking Buckingham Palace.” Louis rolls his eyes.

Harry laughs loud and happy, his eyes twinkling. Louis would take offence but somehow he knows that Harry isn’t making fun of him.

“What would you suggest, then?” Harry asks, seeming eager to have Louis’ expertise.

Louis hums and has a look around. He backtracks their steps until he stops in front of one of the tallest tree of this section. The tree isn’t as wide as some but it looks well proportioned for its size. There’s no excess of branches, the trunk is straight and thick and the needles give off a gorgeous smell. Louis knows this is the one for Harry, it’d be perfect for the living room, just as grand and elegant.

“This one,” he says without hesitation.

“Care to explain why?” Harry asks from behind him.

“Well, for starters it’s a tall tree and your ceilings are incredibly high so you have space to fill. The branches are regular and reasonably bushy. The tree is straight which makes it look better – you really need to stop wiggling your eyebrows like that, you’re a creep – and smell that? The needles are divine.”

Harry hums, smiling so wide his cheeks must hurt. Louis huffs and makes a face at him.

“Alright,” Harry says after a while. He still hasn’t stopped smiling. “You’ve convinced me. We’ll take this one.”

Louis is seconds away from telling Harry that it’s Harry’s decision, not his, and that he is not agreeing or disagreeing, but he bites his lips. That would be a lie, considering Louis was the one who chose the bloody tree.

“You know,” Harry starts to say. Louis looks at him when he hears the thoughtful tone. “For someone who doesn’t celebrate Christmas, you know an awful lot about trees.”

A blush takes him by surprise. Louis puts his hands in his pockets and turns away from Harry.

“Yeah, well,” he clears his throat. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

He hopes Harry will drop the conversation and questions that Louis does not want to answer. Harry seems to hear his silent prayers because he tells him he’s going to get someone to help them carry the tree.

Harry comes back five minutes later with a man wearing a black jumper that says ‘Christmas Tree Forest’. The man introduces himself as Frank and helps them carry the massive tree back towards the tent. There, Frank wraps the tree up for them and after Harry’s paid an incredulous and ridiculous amount of money, gives them an eco-friendly bag in which to put the tree once Christmas is over.

The trek back to Harry’s car a few streets down is challenging. It’s just the two of them carrying the tree and by the time they make it, Louis is sweating everywhere and his muscles are aching with the unusual physical effort.

It proves to be even more difficult to put the tree in the boot of the car so after a few agonising minutes, Harry decides to put it on the roof instead. He wraps a thick and robust rope around it. Harry spends another few minutes making sure the tree is secured.

Once they’re satisfied with Harry’s work, they climb into the car.

Louis supposes that they’re driving back to Harry’s but is surprised when Harry stops the car in front of an Italian restaurant.

“Fancy a good meal after all our hard work?” Harry offers when he notices the scowl on Louis’s face.

“Not particularly.”

He doesn’t want Harry to take him out and pay for his food. He knows that at Harry’s flat, he eats the food that Harry has paid, but that’s a technicality that is easier to ignore than a restaurant. At a restaurant, Louis would be embarrassed to have someone pay for a meal he can’t afford. Just thinking about it makes him feel nauseated.

“I think we’ve earned it,” Harry says, smiling. “That tree was heavy, I’m pretty sure I strained my back.”

“You said it wasn’t a date.” Louis’ voice is flat and gloomy.

He looks out the window so that Harry doesn’t see his face.

“It isn’t.”

“You sure about that? An outing and then lunch, what does it look like to you? I may have never dated but I’m not stupid.”

Louis wants to curse himself. It’s the second time today that he has revealed something about himself, third if he counts his little rant about Christmas trees. He’s gone two years avoiding social contacts with Harry who, for some reason, had seemed to understand. For the past few months, though, Harry hasn’t stopped trying to spend time with him or get to know him.

Accepting Harry’s proposal to live in his spare bedroom was a stupid idea, Louis had known at the time that he’d come to regret. It seems that today is that day.

“Louis, it’s not a date,” Harry says, so quiet that Louis almost misses his words. “I’m honestly just hungry after we carried that tree around, but if you want to go home instead, then we can. I’d never pressure you.”

When he glances at him, Louis sees that Harry is turned towards the window on his side. He frowns because Harry always maintains eye contact to make sure his point has been understood. Harry’s eyes are the literal mirror of his soul.

Louis should feel guilty for making Harry miserable but he can’t find it in him.

“Please, let’s go,” he murmurs, looking away once more.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Harry nodding before he turns the engine on and eases the car back onto the road.

Unlike some silences that they’ve shared before, this one is heavy and it makes Louis queasy. He wipes his wet palms on his thighs. He knows it’s because of him that there is a crease between Harry’s brows and a disappointed tilt to his mouth but he’s not sorry.

Louis is glad when Harry stops the car in his street, glad to escape the tensed atmosphere. He helps Harry bring the tree to the top floor and in the corner beside the fireplace and next to the window.

Before Harry can ask him anything, Louis flees to the spare bedroom in order to get rid of the awkwardness that grows stronger within him. He hasn’t said another word to Harry and Harry hasn’t tried to stop him.

~

It’s a few minutes before seven that night when Louis ventures outside the spare bedroom. He has been too much of a coward to come back out to get some lunch and not knowing where Harry would be, he hadn’t dared to go upstairs to the library.

He hates to admit that he was hiding from Harry all afternoon, but he _was_ hiding. He figures that from now on, the less time he spends with Harry, the less he is likely to blurt out personal things that should stay personal and locked away.

Louis finds Harry in the kitchen, working behind the stove and wearing a ridiculous yellow apron over his casual clothes. He can’t see what Harry is cooking but the smell that reaches his nose is enticing and unlike anything he’s ever smelt before.

“Smells good,” he compliments Harry as a way of greeting.

Harry glances at him and smiles. Louis is relieved – though he doesn’t know why – to see that there is no resentment or disappointment in the way Harry looks at him. It’s like a weight is being lifted from his shoulders. He gives Harry a small, tentative smile of his own.

“Thank you,” Harry answers, bashful. “Please, take a seat, it should be ready in a couple minutes.”

“We’re eating in here?”

The only night Louis has eaten in the kitchen was the night Harry worked late and missed dinner.

“Yes, it’s much cosier and simple this way.”

Louis sits on the right bar stool closest to him where the cutlery has already been set. He watches Harry work his way around the kitchen, juggling with the food and spatula whilst multi-tasking to get everything ready.

“Here you go,” Harry says as he places a hot plate in front of Louis.

“Thanks, what is it?” Louis asks. He sniffs the plate, his stomach whining and giving off a plaintive noise.

Harry sits down next to him and pours himself a glass of red wine.

“Curry,” he smiles. “Chicken curry. I hope that’s alright.”

Louis takes a bite of his food and moans in pleasure when the creamy sauce Harry has used melts in his mouth.

“Shit, that’s the best meal I’ve ever eaten,” Louis gasps as he digs his fork in the food again.

“Thank you,” Harry preens at the compliment, his cheeks turning a couple shades darker.

“Where did you learn to cook like that?” Louis can’t help but ask.

His growing curiosity is beginning harder to ignore the longer he stays with Harry. He doesn’t know what it is about Harry that makes him so curious. Perhaps, it’s the fact that he hasn’t had a proper conversation with anyone in a long time. He had forgotten what it feels like.

“Well, I used to work in a bakery when I was sixteen and then I guess I just learnt how to cook when I was helping my mum,” Harry shrugs.

“That’s impressive.”

Harry beams at him.

They eat the rest of their meal in a comfortable silence. As they’re having dessert, a homemade organic ice-cream, Harry speaks up.

“I want to apologise for this morning. I shouldn’t have assumed it was OK to buy you lunch without asking first.”

In theory, Louis knows that Harry is not to blame and that his apology is wrong. It’s because of Louis that it was awkward between them, he should be the one to apologise, but he doesn’t feel guilty or sorry. Harry knew that Louis would never accept his money.

“It’s fine,” he is quick to say in hopes to avoid talking about it.

Harry stares at him as if he is analysing him but he doesn’t pursue the conversation any further.

After clearing up their dishes, Louis is about to retreat to the spare bedroom when Harry stops him.

“I’m going to decorate the tree and drink some hot chocolate. Would you like to join me? You don’t have to help with the tree if you don’t want to.”

Harry looks so hopeful, like a kid on Christmas day, that Louis sees his earlier resolutions crumbling.

“Alright.”

Louis settles in the sofa, in the living room, his feet tucked under his thighs. Harry brings them two mugs of steamy hot chocolate that he sets on the coffee table.

There’s a box in front of the fireplace labelled ‘Christmas decorations’ that Harry must have brought sometime during the day. Harry opens it and starts digging into it, taking out some ornaments and tinsels.

Louis eyes him from his spot on the sofa. The hot chocolate is just sweet enough, like Louis loves it and it warms his chest in a pleasant way when the liquid goes down.

“You know, this is probably the best hot chocolate I’ve ever drank, maybe even better than the one I used to drink as a child.”

As soon as the words are out, Louis frowns. It’s clear that his brain is suffering from a malfunction. At this point, it’s the only explanation that makes sense.

Harry turns to him, his expression soft, a small smile on his lips.

“Yeah?”

Louis nods, not trusting his voice when his throat feels too tight and too dry.

“I’m glad,” Harry murmurs. “My mum used to make hot chocolate for Gemma and I whenever we had a bad day. And cookies,” he adds as an afterthought.

Harry’s smile turns rueful, seeming lost in his own distant memories.

“What kind of cookies?”

“Triple chocolate, of course,” Harry says as if it’s obvious.

Louis snorts, shaking his head.

“Dark chocolate cookies are the best, Harold. That’s what I used to leave out for Santa on Christmas eve.”

“I used to leave gingerbread cookies for him,” Harry says.

Louis gives him a hint of a smile, grateful that Harry isn’t asking him more questions.

“So, what do you say? Green and blue decorations or red and gold?” Harry’s face is serious as he asks him, waving two sets of tinsels.

“I’d chose blue and green anytime if it wasn’t Christmas.”

Harry nods and puts the blue and green tinsels back in the box.

“I must confess that I agree with you. Blue is my favourite colour,” Harry whispers, winking at him.

Harry starts to place the red and gold decorations on the tree whilst Louis leans back and finishes his hot chocolate.

“Do you ever use the fireplace?” Louis asks after a few minutes of pleasant silence.

He’s patting his full stomach. He hasn’t felt this bloated and uneasy in his clothes in years. Over the past few days, Louis has started gaining back some weight and he looks good, better than when he lived on the streets.

“Sometimes. I’m not home enough to really enjoy it.”

“Mm. That’s a shame.”

“Would you like to have it on?”

“I guess I’m just curious to see what it looks like. I’ve never seen a fake fire before.” He shrugs.

Harry laughs and shakes his head a bit. Putting down the decorations in his hand, Harry moves the box out of the way.

“It’s not a fake fire, it’s just electric."

“They’re not real flames though,” Louis counters.

“Yes they are,” Harry chuckles.” It’s just the coal that doesn’t burn like in a normal fire.”

“So it is a fake fire,” Louis insists, frowning because nothing that Harry says makes sense anymore.

Harry chuckles some more as he turns the fire on and beckons Louis over. Louis is reluctant but he gets off the sofa and joins him in front of the fireplace.

“Hold out your hand,” Harry instructs, his own hands already extended towards the fire. “You feel the heat? It’s just like a normal fire and the flames are blue because it’s electric. But it feels and looks the same, doesn’t it?”

Louis nods, mostly because he doesn’t care that much about it and also because he still doesn’t understand what the heck Harry is saying. To him it’s just a fake fire that rich people buy to be trendy, but he is too tired to keep arguing.

He sits cross-legged by the fire whilst Harry goes back to decorating the tree.

It takes Harry another fifteen minutes before he’s finished putting all the ornaments on the tree. The last touch is a big red and gold star on top of the tree that adds to its magnificence. Harry steps back to admire his work and nods to himself. Louis has to admit that Harry didn’t do a bad job at all. He’s actually surprised by how gorgeous the tree is looking.

Harry sits down next to him, sipping on his now cold hot chocolate. They’re both silent, watching the blue flames flickering against the coals. Sleep is pulling at Louis’ eyelids caused by a full stomach and the warmth of the fire.

“Thank you for today,” Harry whispers.

Louis shrugs and stifles a yawn.

“I mean it. You didn’t have to help this morning but you did, and tonight, you kept me company so thank you for that as well. It can get quite lonely sometimes, especially so close to the festive holidays.”

Louis wants to tell him that he understands only too well about loneliness over the holidays, that today wasn’t so bad if he looks back on it and that perhaps he is thankful for Harry’s company too, but he can’t. He doesn’t want Harry to nourish hopes that someday, they might become friends. That’s not how it works in Louis’ world.

“I’m tired,” he replies instead. “I think I’m going to head off to bed, now.”

Harry nods in understanding, his smile hesitant. He isn’t looking away as Louis gets up and grabs his empty mug from the coffee table.

“Goodnight Louis,” Harry whispers.

Louis nods at him before hurrying to leave. He puts the mug in the dishwasher then locks himself in the bathroom.

It’s just as he is finishing to brush his teeth that it happens. That _he_ appears.

At first, Louis thinks that his eyes are so blurry with sleep that he can’t see very well but after rubbing them hard for a few seconds, he realises that he was wrong. His eyes can see to the utmost perfection, it isn’t a trick of the lights nor is he hallucinating.

 _He_ is back after days spent in the dark, thinking that he had gone away.

Upon seeing him for the first time, Louis gasps, shocked to see the young boy and his constant miserable state here in Harry’s bathroom. Except... Except that the boy is not crying. In fact, he doesn’t look as dejected as usual. Louis would even say he is well rested. The dark circles under his eyes are fading and his cheeks have gained some colour.

“You’re back,” Louis whispers, his lips trembling.

He holds on to the sink when he feels his legs starting to shake. To his surprise, the boy gives him a crooked smile, cocking his head to the side, his brown straight hair falling on his face.

Louis takes a step back, forgetting about the weakness in his legs. He stumbles but manages to stay upright.

“You’ve stopped,” the boy says with so much happiness that Louis thinks he must be dreaming.

“Stopped what?” He asks though he has an inkling as to where this conversation is going. It makes him want to vomit his lovely dinner.

“You’ve stopped letting them touch you. They’re not beating you anymore.”

Even though he sort of knew what the boy was going to say, it still takes him by surprise. Louis’ whole face blanches and he stumbles backwards into the door.

“Not by choice,” he whispers but it doesn’t make a difference.

The boy is still smiling, his eyes are even shining with tears but Louis knows that they’re tears of joy.

“You can still go home now.” The boy says, so naive, so innocent that Louis starts to hyperventilate, his hand twisting his shirt.

“There is no home.”

His voice is too quiet. In his daydream, the boy doesn’t hear him.

“It’s time to go home, Louis.”

The use of his name jerks Louis back into motion. He stands up straighter and glowers at the boy.

“There is no home,” he snaps, louder.

That gets the boy’s attention to snap back into focus. Louis watches as the expression on the boy’s face fall at the harsh reality of Louis’ words. His eyes water and he curls in on himself, his smile gone.

“There is one,” he weeps. “You don’t want to accept it.”

“There is no home!” Louis bellows at the top of his lungs, his whole body trembling.

He needs to shut him up. He can’t have the boy talking nonsense to him, giving him hope. It’s a feeling he hasn’t been familiar with in years and it’s only painful to think that there might be some left for him.

A quiet knock on the door breaks the hollow silence that has filled the room. Louis feels it against his back. He sucks in a breath, realising that he’s been caught yelling.

“Louis? Are you OK? I heard you shout.”

Harry’s voice comes distinct and worried from behind the door. It sounds like Harry is speaking right into his ear.

Louis closes his eyes and exhales through his nose a few times to calm his racing heart he feels pulsing in his chest.

“Louis?” Another knock.

When Louis opens his eyes again, the boy is gone, leaving Louis’ reflection to stare back at him with a wide, crazed look.

“I’m fine,” he croaks out to Harry, his throat too dry.

Behind the door, Harry stays silent for so long that Louis thinks he’s either gone or has fallen asleep.

“Do you need anything?” Harry asks because he is kind and always seems to look out for Louis, for some reason.

“I said I’m fine!”

Louis realises he’s growling when Harry doesn’t answer straight away. Why is Harry even here? Why can’t he leave him alone? Louis has never asked him to coddle him like a baby, he doesn’t need him.

“OK,” Harry whispers, voice so quiet that if Louis wasn’t leaning against the door, he wouldn’t hear him.

The sounds of Harry’s quiet footsteps echo down the corridor until Louis hears him open and close his bedroom door shut.

Louis doesn’t need to have had an education or a degree to know that Harry is hurt by Louis’ outburst, that Louis could have been nicer to him.

Whatever, he thinks. What is done is done and what matters most is that both of them have left Louis alone. For now.

~

Harry is late for dinner. It’s Friday and it’s the first time this week that he comes back so late. Perhaps Louis would worry or maybe he’d wonder what had happened to Harry if Harry hadn’t warned him on Monday that the week leading up to Christmas is always hectic.

Louis supposes that there must be a lot of people who order the organic stuff that Simply Green has for sale. Either way, it’s not his business and that doesn’t stop him from eating his dinner in front of the TV, watching a rerun of Friends.

Earlier during the week, he’s let Harry convince him that it was alright for him to watch TV when Harry is gone to work. It took Louis a couple days but he ended up joining Harry after dinner on Wednesday evening. He didn’t want to spend too much time with Harry but Harry doesn’t speak much when they watch TV.

Since Wednesday, Louis has to admit that he has spent a lot of his time glued to the sofa, watching sit coms and films that he has missed over the years.

In fact, Harry was so appalled when he found out that Louis had never seen Captain America, that he decided they had to do something about it. In the end, Louis had endured two hours watching Chris Evans become super sexy. It could have been worse.

The film turned out to be pretty great for a superhero movie. Louis ended up watching the second one as soon as he woke up the next day.

The home phone rings all of sudden, resonating off the walls and making Louis jump out of his skin. He glances at it where it sits still on the mantelpiece but leaves it to go to voicemail.

When it rings again, Louis thinks that the person calling must either be very desperate and lonely or it’s a real emergency and he better answer the phone. He sighs and gets off the sofa before the ringing stops.

“Um... Harry’s flat? Can I take a message?” He cringes upon hearing the uncertainty of his own words but what is he even supposed to say?

“Louis! Thank God you’re home,” Harry breathes out a relived exhale though it doesn’t hide the panic Louis can hear.

“Where else would I be?”

“I need you to do me a favour,” Harry ignores Louis’ sass. “Can you go have a look in the fridge and tell me what’s in there? The freezer too, please.”

Louis frowns at his odd request.

“There’s plenty of food to last a few days,” Louis replies instead.

“Yes, I know. I just need you to tell me what’s already in there. I’ll explain when I get home,” Harry urges him, speaking faster than his usual drawl.

“OK, hold your horses, Harold. Breathe, don’t pass out on me,” Louis mutters as he walks towards the kitchen.

Harry’s breathy albeit nervous laugh tickles his ear. Louis gives him a list of all the food Harry has in stock before asking if Harry wants him to check the larder as well.

“No, it’s alright, I’ve got everything I need. Thank you, Louis. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

Harry hangs up after that, leaving Louis confused as to what all this fuss is about.

He gets his answer about an hour later when Harry comes barging through the front door, an endless amount of shopping bags in his hands. Louis’ eyes seem to bulge out of their sockets when he notices all the food that Harry has bought. The only times he’s even seen so much food was for Christmas dinners or a birthday party.

As soon as that thought crosses his mind, Louis jumps off the sofa, eyes narrowed, and follows a struggling Harry to the kitchen. He doesn’t know when Harry’s birthday is but he’s certain the man would have told him by now if his birthday fell during the winter holidays.

That leaves one option.

“Harold,” Louis says, suspicious. “What’s all this?”

Harry puts all the grocery bags on the kitchen island before he turns to Louis with one of the biggest smile that Louis has seen so far. It eats up over half of his face yet it’s not enough to hide the hint of a blush that wanders on his cheeks. Harry’s smile is very blinding so Louis looks down at the bags.

“We’re hosting Christmas!” Harry exclaims, much more joyous than Louis would ever feel upon hearing those feared words.

“What do you mean, you’re hosting Christmas?” He asks in disbelief, refusing to be a part of that ‘we’ Harry keeps talking about.

Harry starts to unpack the groceries. In front of Louis’ very eyes, the kitchen is now filled with enough food to feed a small army. There’s everything you need for a Christmas dinner: two ducks – though why the hell Harry thinks ducks are to be eaten on Christmas is beyond him –, some potatoes and sweet potatoes, sprouts, cauliflower, carrots, parsnips, everything you need for a homemade gravy and even cracklings.

Louis’ head is spinning from all the food displayed in front of him.

“You said you were going to your mum’s for the weekend,” Louis adds.

He knows his voice has an edge of complaint to it that he can’t quite shake off but he has a good reason. When Harry asked him if he wanted to spend Christmas with Harry’s family, Louis declined the offer.

It was obvious that Harry had been disappointed but he hasn’t insisted since the day he asked, which surprised Louis. Harry had even said that Agnes wouldn’t be around on Christmas, that the flat would be empty and that Louis could do as he pleased.

It’s not that Louis wants to stay alone in Harry’s flat while Harry is gone, surrounded by his extravagant furniture but between that and celebrating Christmas... Well, it was the easiest choice Louis ever had to face.

“That was the plan, yes,” Harry says, pulling Louis out of his thoughts.

“Then, what happened?” Louis sits on one of the bar stools.

“There’s been a flood at my parents’,” Harry informs him as he puts the groceries away. “The whole ground floor is filled with at least three inches of water. It’s really bad timing considering it’s the holidays and after that it’ll take weeks perhaps months before they can go back to their house. We can’t do Christmas over there.”

“What about your sister?”

“Her flat is rather small. She only has one bedrooms so she’ll have to take the sofa while my parents are there. It’ll be cramped enough as it is without the stress of cooking Christmas dinner for all of us,” Harry explains.

“Why are they staying there, then?” Louis frowns.

“Gemma and I both live in London so it makes sense for them to be near us. I would have welcomed them here but...” Harry shrugs, his smile easy and happy.

“But I’m here,” Louis finishes for him.

“Yes, you are but I wouldn’t trade you for the world,” Harry promises, his dimples showing. “Is that OK?” Harry looks anxious, much like he sounded on the phone.

“Mm?”

“Christmas dinner,” Harry explains. “To have it here.”

“Harold, you can do what you want. Last time I checked, this was your flat and your family,” Louis shrugs though he feels his own anxiety awakening.

“I know,” Harry sighs. He sits down next to Louis once he’s done with the groceries. “I just- I know you don’t celebrate Christmas and I did say that you’d have the flat for yourself while I was away. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable in your own home. This is your safe place and I don’t want to interfere with that.”

“Harry,” Louis sighs as well, a hand massaging his temples, ignoring the fact that Harry said it was his home too. It is not but he doesn’t want to argue. “When will you stop being so considerate with others? It’s time you thought of yourself first. Stop worrying about me, I don’t need your protection.”

Harry snorts and scoffs at the same time though Louis doesn’t know what it is that Harry is so sceptical about and his face is unreadable. He doesn’t insist or argues as Louis thought he would.

“Alright,” Harry says at last. “Will you join us for dinner? Gemma would like to meet you.”

Although Harry tries to appear nonchalant, he can’t get rid of the flicker of hope dancing in his eyes.

“I’ll pass,” Louis says because there is no way he is meeting Harry’s family. They’re nothing for each other.

He watches as the hope vanishes from Harry’s features, replaced by disappointment and then acceptance.

“Though, I do have a question,” Louis adds and he too isn’t able to hide his feelings and get rid of the mockery of his words.

“What is it?” Harry’s smile comes back.

“Why the hell did you buy ducks?”

Harry barks out a laugh then puts a hand in front of his mouth, as if that will cancel the weird noise he just made. Louis shakes his head at how ridiculous Harry is.

“Why not turkey like every other normal person?” Louis adds, making Harry laugh again.

“That’s just what my mum’s always cooked for our Christmas dinner,” Harry shrugs, his dimpled smile never leaving his face. “I never asked why but she could tell you tomorrow.”

“So you’ve never had a turkey for Christmas? What about roast potatoes?” Louis asks only half appalled, half joking because he did see the potatoes that Harry bought.

“We have those,” Harry chuckles, his eyes twinkling in amusement.

“Pigs and blankets?”

“I’m afraid we don’t do them on Christmas.” Harry doesn’t sound or look apologetic at all.

“Your childhood must have been awful. You’ve missed out on a perfect Christmas dinner.”

“Maybe we can have them another day,” Harry suggests, taking pity on him. “So that you can show me what I’ve missed.”

Louis hums, soft and quiet.

“Do you want to come watch Thor with me while I eat?” Harry asks as he gets up from the stool.

“Sure.”

~

Louis was dead set on staying locked up in the spare bedroom all day until Christmas was over and Harry’s family was gone. His plan turns out to be just that: a plan. A wishful dream.

Instead, Louis gets woken up by a loud clatter followed by a string of curses that would make a nun blush. He sits upright in bed, his eyes drooping from lack of sleep. He spends a minute rubbing them, trying to wake himself up.

When he hears Harry cursing for the second time in less than two minutes, Louis abandons the warmth of the bed to venture outside towards the source of the noise.

“What are you doing?” He asks when he gets to the kitchen and finds Harry crouching and picking up a broken plate and some carrot pieces.

Harry jumps in fright, hits his head against the opened door of a cupboard inside the kitchen island and drops the pieces of plate he had gathered.

“Jesus, Louis, don’t you know not to scare someone when they’re cooking?” Harry whines in a high-pitched voice, a hand rubbing his head, the other resting on his heart.

Louis quirks his eyebrows at him and can’t help the quiet snigger that leaves his mouth.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how the saying goes,” he answers with a voice that he manages to keep flat and unimpressed.

L0“Same thing,” Harry waves a hand in the air before bending down once again to clean the mess he’s made.

That’s when Louis notices how well Harry is dressed. He’s not wearing the expensive suits he wears for work, nor the casual clothes he adopts when he stays home. Instead, Harry is wearing tight black jeans and a polka dot buttons up. There is even a pearl necklace around his neck.

“Have somewhere to be?” Louis gestures at Harry’s outfit when Harry frowns.

“What- no, Louis. It’s Christmas today, we talked about that last night.”

Harry drops the broken plate and carrot pieces in the bin before going back to the island. He starts cutting the rest of the carrots. Oh. Right. Louis had forgotten. He’d been too caught up avoiding sleep when he woke up after a familiar nightmare that it had slipped from his mind. He clears his throat, feeling too hot and put on the spot under Harry’s understanding eyes. Harry didn’t understand anything.

“Right,” Louis says louder than he intended. Harry jumps back a little and looks away from him. “Why are you so stressed? Didn’t you say that your parents don’t get here until noon? That leaves,” he pauses, glancing at the clock on the wall, “two hours.”

“It’s just a lot for one person,” Harry admits sheepishly, his face blushing.

“Mm.”

Louis’ eyes dart from Harry to the food on the table, going back and forth between the two, his mind reeling. He sighs when he makes up his decision, earning himself a frown from Harry.

“What, would you rather panic on your own to finish on time? I can leave if you want, I don’t really care if your dinner is a success or not,” he grunts, ignoring the small smile that grows on Harry’s lips.

Harry tries to stop himself from smiling by biting his lips. He nods.

“No, please stay. Can you peel and cut potatoes?”

Louis gives him a look that has Harry giggling a bit like a chicken. He sits on the bar stool opposite Harry and steals the peeler from Harry’s hands.

While he starts peeling a potato, Harry opens the oven to check on the temperature before placing the baking tray full of ducks inside. He then glances back at Louis under the pretence of searching for something on the kitchen island.

“If you’re going to micro-manage me the entire time, I’ll leave you to deal with all of this on your own,” Louis threatens him with the peeler. He sends potato skin all over the table and floor but Harry doesn’t seem to mind.

They work in silence at first before Harry decides that they need some music to boost their energy. He is mindful to skip every Christmas song that comes on on his phone. Harry makes a show of singing with the spatula and does some ridiculous dance moves that Louis wants to bleach from his memory. If Louis’ murderous look could kill, he would have glared at Harry a long time ago.

After both the potatoes and carrots are done and boiling on the stove, Harry moves on to take care of the parsnips whilst Louis, following Harry’s lead, cuts some crosses on the Brussels sprouts.

It takes them another while to cook everything but as the clock strikes twelve, everything is almost ready to be served. Harry smiles, proud of them, hair dishevelled and cheeks red from the heat of the oven. Louis must not look any better but the big difference is that he doesn’t have to see himself. He only feels the humid perspiration trickling down his hairline and back.

“Right, that’s all for now. The ducks should be ready very soon and everything else is cooked. We did good. Thank you for your help, Louis. I really appreciate it.” Harry has a kind smile as he wipes the counter with a dish towel.

Just as Louis opens his mouth to answer, the doorbell rings. They have two very different reactions. Harry’s smile grows bigger, his dimples popping out to say hello whilst Louis’ eyes widen and he shrinks in on himself.

It had never been part of the plan to meet Harry’s family and if by some incredulous accident Louis were to meet them, it wouldn’t be when he’s still wearing Harry’s pyjamas.

“That must be them,” Harry exclaims happily.

He is excited but he loses some of that excitement when he catches the horror-stricken look on Louis’ face.

“Right,” Harry says, much quieter than before. “Thank you again for your help, Louis. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you. If you decide to change your mind, you’re more than welcome to join us, there’s enough food for all of us.”

Harry clears his throat. He fidgets, growing restless the longer Louis stays silent but Louis has nothing new to say.

“Right, I’ll go answer the door,” Harry murmurs.

Harry nods at him once before leaving the kitchen through the archway. Louis waits in the kitchen until he hears the front door open. When the sound of voices gets louder, he comes back to his senses.

Louis dashes down the corridor and into the spare room. Somehow, it doesn’t feel safe enough though there is a lock on the door, so he grabs some fresh clothes and makes a run for the bathroom.

He locks the door behind him then rests his back against it, letting out a relieved sigh.

The hot water is cleansing. He tries to stay for as long as he can but he runs out of things to do so he gets out and gets dressed. As he is brushing his teeth, realising he did not have any breakfast or even his morning cuppa, _he_ decides that now is as a good time as ever to make an appearance.

“You can’t run away from him forever,” the boy says, his brows furrowed. He pouts his lips.

The boy has been moody for a couple days now. Today, the boy looks contrite and a bit cross with Louis. Since their heated conversation which turned into an argument, the boy is back to being a shadow of himself, vexed by Louis’ words and attitude.

Louis spits in the sink, rinses his mouth of the toothpaste then turns the water off.

“Run away from who?”

“Harry,” the boy says with a roll of his eyes as if it’s the most obvious thing.

To Louis, it isn’t obvious.

“What about him?”

Louis crosses his arms on his chest, shielding himself from the boy. He wishes he could sever the bond that links them together if only he knew how.

“You can’t run away from him forever,” the boy repeats.

This time he is a bit more intense and makes sure to be very slow to get the words out as if he thought that he could get them through to Louis.

“What does that mean? No one is running.” Louis is confused but his increasing irritation gets louder and harder to control.

“Harry is good,” the boy whispers.

Louis already knows that, Harry has been open with him from the beginning. It doesn’t make it any of this less confusing. Louis’ head starts to hurt the more he is thinking about the boy’s words.

“Stop talking in riddles,” Louis snaps, his temper slipping past his fingers.

There’s a knock on the door just then that drowns the boy’s answer. Louis startles and looks at the door through the mirror. His heart rate picks up when Harry’s voice doesn’t follow the knock, meaning that it must be someone else.

Another knock arrives, this time more forceful.

“I know you’re in there. Just open the door already mate, I’m bursting,” a female voice says from behind the door.

Louis doesn’t recognise the voice. He takes a big intake of breath, knowing he can’t postpone meeting Harry’s mother or sister any longer. He wipes at his forehead, pushing some hair out of his eyes then opens the door before he can cower in fear.

A pretty woman stands on the other side. She has straight brown hair that falls to her shoulders as well as green eyes that lean towards brown. Gemma, Louis thinks. She’s even more beautiful in person than in the pictures on the mantelpiece.

Clearing his throat, Louis wishes he had drank some water when he was brushing his teeth. He swears his throat was not as dry before.

“You’re Gemma?” Louis asks with a shaky voice, needing the confirmation before introducing himself.

The woman gives him a sharp grin, her eyes glinting with an emotion that Louis can’t pinpoint, and extends her hand. Her handshake is strong and steady. Louis wonders if she knows her grip is too tight or if that’s the way she greets new people.

“And you’re Louis,” she says with confidence. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Louis freezes at her words because how would she know anything about him? Has Harry been talking about him to his family? What could he even say? It hasn’t been long since Harry found out Louis’ real name, there hasn’t been enough time to talk about him.

His internal panic starts to show so he takes his hand back before its trembling alerts Gemma of his state of mind. He shouldn’t even care that Harry speaks about him. In fact, he does not care. He and Harry are not even acquaintances, even less friends. Harry can do as he pleases, it doesn’t affect him in any way, shape or form.

“Me too,” Louis stammers after what feels like forever. “I mean, I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”

Gemma’s grin widens. She doesn’t have dimples. For some reason, that fact is a relief.

“Now that we have introduced ourselves to each other, why don’t you go join everyone else in the living room? I still need to use the bathroom.”

Gemma walks inside the room leaving no other choice for Louis but to flee. Something about her makes his skin prickle with unease. It’s like she knows something about him that he doesn’t, like she is calculating something in her mind, like Louis needs to be figured out.

Louis is in quite the conundrum. On the one hand, he doesn’t want to think about Christmas or be anywhere near Harry’s family. All he wanted was to stay in bed all day and wallow like he has done the past few years. It’s a new tradition. Meeting Harry’s family and doing anything remotely Christmas-y was always out of the question.

On the other hand, he’s already met Harry’s sister. Louis doesn’t doubt for a second that she will mention their little tensed encounter should he not show his face at dinner. Gemma would figure that Louis has chickened out but that wouldn’t even be for the reasons that she would imagine. Louis can’t face a happy family on Christmas day, not when Christmas means family. Well, sort of – Louis knows it’s the celebration of Jesus Christ but whatever.

Louis doesn’t have time to think about what to do because he hears the flush of the toilets. It’s only a matter of seconds before Gemma comes out of the bathroom and sees him standing in the corridor like some sort of freak or pervert. He is neither.

So, he scampers down the corridor and barrels into the kitchen. He pauses at the archway, peering past the wall.

In the living room, Harry has his back turned to Louis. He is in a light conversation with an older woman. The woman is shorter and has the same brown hair as Harry and is showering him with affection. An older man with a growing belly and white hair is sitting on the sofa, laughing a gravelly sound at the standing pair.

Louis’ brief courage falls to pieces at the sight. It’s a pleasant sight that exudes happiness and longing at not seeing enough of each other. All Louis can do is stare, paralysed. His feet are heavy as lead, glued to the floor.

He feels Gemma’s haunting presence behind him before she comes to a stop next to him.

“He’s always been like a little boy on Christmas.” Gemma’s voice is soft and quiet, with obvious love for her brother.

Louis doesn’t know what to say to that so he stays silent and nods.

“I’m glad he’s found you. He seems to be happy. He deserves to be happy after Kate,” Gemma mutters to herself.

She is staring at her brother with a thoughtful frown. Louis is still mute, but this time it has nothing to do with a lack of things to say. This time, shock and bewilderment are the cause of his silent, because what? What did Gemma just say? Since when he and Harry are in a relationship?

“Come on, mum is dying to meet you,” Gemma jostles him from his thoughts and pushes him forward with a gentle hand on his back.

Louis trips over his own feet earning a little snicker from Gemma. He feels numb the closer he gets to the joyous little group. His anger is buzzing just below his skin as a reminder that Harry betrayed him and Louis was too stupid to start putting his trust in him. All along, Harry has been playing him, using him. Maybe he even invented that whole flood story and was hosting Christmas all this time.

God, Louis has been so stupid.

“I’m going to check on the food then we can open the bottle of champagne, alright?” Harry chirps to his parents before turning around.

He’s the first one to spot Louis and Gemma as they climb the three steps leading up to the living room. His startle is visible for everyone. His smile drops when he notices Louis’ dangerous scowl.

Harry’s eyes flicker between Louis and Gemma, taking in the sombre expression darkening Louis’ face and Gemma’s oblivious smile and her hand on Louis’ back. Worry paints his features but Louis looks away.

As soon as this day is over, Louis is leaving.

“Look who I found lurking in the kitchen,” Gemma announces bright and loud.

Another two pairs of eyes bore onto Louis face. It’s awkward just standing there under the scrutiny of two strangers so he hides his hands in his trousers’ pockets to give himself some countenance.

The silence stretches on long enough to be uncomfortable but the older woman who Louis assumes is Harry’s mother walks past Harry.

Her smile is warm and welcoming. It should ease Louis’ discomfort but it does the exact opposite. He’d rather be anywhere else than in front of this woman who is welcoming him into their lives and for what? For a lie, a fib of a life fabricated by her son. It won’t take long before she realises that it’s just that; a lie.

“Hello, love. You must be Louis? I’m Anne, Harry’s mum. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Her voice is as kind and soft as her smile. She has the same slow drawl as Harry. Anne has another smile before she embraces Louis in a loose hug.

“Uh... Um... Likewise,” he ends up stuttering like a fool.

His eyes dart sideways and meet Harry’s. Harry’s guilt is clear as day, written all over his face, as it should. Louis sends him a dark look before looking away. Anne lets him go soon after.

“This is Robin, my husband,” Anne gestures to the man on the sofa.

Robin stands up and shakes his hand.

“Good afternoon, uh, sir?” Louis cringes at his hesitation, making everyone laugh.

“Call me Robin, son.”

Louis nods, ignoring how everything twists inside of him, red flags screaming. He doesn’t want Robin to call him ‘son’ or any other name that is not his own.

“Didn’t you say something about checking the food, love?” Anne reminds Harry, turning to him.

It takes a few seconds in which Harry doesn’t look away from Louis’ face, but he nods at last.

“Yes, I’m going now. Actually, Louis, why don’t you come with me? You helped cook the food as well.”

Harry extends a hand towards the kitchen. Louis plasters on a fake smile and nods.

As soon they step inside the kitchen, Louis grabs a hold of Harry’s shirt and shoves him against the wall, his anger now roaming free.

“What the hell was that about?” Louis’ vociferous voice asks.

“Louis, I am so sorry,” Harry pleads.

His long, slender fingers wrap around Louis’ wrists but he doesn’t try to pry him off of him.

“Damn right you are. What the fuck, Harry? Why would you do that?”

“I’m sorry! What was I supposed to do?” Harry sounds desperate for Louis to understand, his guilt more prominent now that they’re alone.

“Anything but that! For fuck’s sake, Harry, you played me, you used me. You’re a cunning bastard.”

Louis’ fists tighten around Harry’s collar. If he releases him, he night punch Harry, hard, but he refuses to be the one who throws the first blow.

“Louis, there wasn’t much to do back there, was there?” Harry exclaims, his eyes flittering with something close to annoyance.

Louis scoffs. The nerves that Harry has are impressive.

“How about the fucking truth?” Louis seethes.

“I did tell them the truth!”

“Clearly not,” Louis snorts. “Otherwise your sister wouldn’t think that we’re dating.”

“What?”

Harry stares at him in confusion for a few seconds, brows knitted together. He seems to he thinking hard.

“What?” He repeats.

“You heard me,” Louis sneers. “Gemma thinks we’re dating.”

Harry can act innocent all he wants, he doesn’t fool Louis. Louis knows what he heard; Harry’s been taking him for an idiot. All along, he’s been a joke to Harry, a brilliant idea in his master plan to get his family off his back.

Harry’s widen all of a sudden. It’s like he is realising something that Louis is still not aware about and for some reason that ignites his anger even more.

“Louis,” Harry is careful to say his name slowly, his unblinking eyes staring into Louis’ narrowed ones. “I have never ever said to anyone that we’re dating.”

The seriousness with which he speaks makes Louis pause for a second. Then, he snorts and shakes his head. He won’t let Harry take him for an idiot again.

“Sure you did,” he says with sarcasm.

“I swear to you, Louis, I didn’t say that we’re dating. I’m not a liar.”

“What did you say, then?” This question has been bugging him since his conversation with Gemma, if he can call the one sided monologue a conversation.

“I said that I was helping a friend in need, that your name is Louis and that you’re the most intriguing person I’ve ever met.”

It’s the truth, Louis can see how earnest Harry is. Still, he is not convinced.

“Why did Gemma think we’re dating?”

“She must have drawn her own conclusions,” Harry shrugs.

“What conclusions?”

“About you, me, us.” Harry gestures between them.

“There is no us.”

“Yes, I know. I told her that.”

Louis stares at him a bit longer before releasing his grip on Harry. He takes a few steps back until his back hits a bar stool. He sits on it, relieved that his legs didn’t give out.

“How would she come to such conclusions?” Louis asks in confusion because that part still isn’t clear. It doesn’t make sense.

He watches as Harry straightens his shirt, his hands smoothing the fabric. His face flushes the same pink colour as his shirt. His eyes avoid Louis and that’s enough of a hint for Louis to know that Harry is hiding something from him.

“Harold,” he warns him.

Harry sighs, runs a hand through his short curls then nods, embarrassed.

“Alright, fine. She thinks that there is something between us because of the way I talk about you.”

“What way is that?”

“I’m not going to draw you a picture, Louis,” Harry groans. “I like you, OK? Gemma figured it out because she knows me and my mum is happy to meet you because she heard me gush over you.”

Louis frowns. That’s not what he was expecting Harry to say. In a way, it’s worse than if Harry had been pretending that they were dating.

“You don’t know me,” Louis’ voice is flat and emotionless.

Harry nods.

“I don’t, but I want to. I’m sorry I had to tell you that way.”

Louis shakes his head because in all honesty, Harry shouldn’t have told him at all. It doesn’t make a difference though, whether Harry likes him or not. Louis doesn’t reciprocate his feelings and never will. That’s what matters and he is not cruel enough to antagonise Harry every day with his mere presence.

“I think I should leave.”

“OK. I’m sorry my sister forced you to meet everyone. I told them you don’t celebrate Christmas but she never listens.”

“No, Harry. I think I should leave,” Louis repeats, emphasising the last word.

“What do you m- what? Louis, why would you leave? You can stay. I promise to keep my sister away from you. Please, stay,” Harry begs him.

He doesn’t move closer though he starts fidgeting.

“It’s not a good idea for me to stay.” Louis stands up.

“Louis, it’s Christmas, it’s bloody cold outside. They say it will snow soon. You can’t go back to the streets, you’ll freeze to death.”

“I think it’s for the best.”

“You don’t even have money,” Harry points out.

Louis narrows his eyes at Harry. He can’t insult him because Harry speaks again.

“Please, stay,” he implores.

They’re interrupted by Gemma as she waltzes inside the kitchen as if she owns the place. Louis admires her confidence.

“What are you two up to? We’re starving over there, baby bro.”

She nears the kitchen island and steals some appetisers before turning to look at them, both eyebrows raised.

Harry hasn’t moved his eyes away from Louis. Louis meets his gaze and holds it for a few seconds. Then, he turns to Gemma who’s expecting an answer.

“I’m so sorry but I’m not feeling very well. Must have caught a cold or something. I’m going to lay down for a bit. Enjoy your dinner and merry Christmas.”

He surprises himself when he finishes talking. Louis had meant to tell them he was leaving and never coming back but something has stopped him at the last second. It must have been the valid reasons that Harry had explained. Glancing over at Harry, Louis can’t decipher his expression apart from the obvious relief in his hesitant, uncertain smile.

“Oh, that’s a bummer. We’ll save you some dinner, right Hazzy?” Gemma says, chucking an appetiser at Harry. It bounces off his chest and falls on the floor.

“Don’t call me that,” Harry murmurs, soft and a bit distant as he keeps on watching Louis.

Louis breaks their eye contact and walks out off the kitchen after waving at the siblings.

Back in the bedroom, he can breathe again though his chest is constricted. His body is still shaking with remnants of anger but it’s fading the longer he stays alone. Today is another example to add to his list of reasons to avoid celebrating Christmas.

~

Around ten that evening, Louis’ stomach is hurting so much from hunger that he can no longer ignore its pathetic noises. Hunger is a familiar feeling that has accompanied him over the years yet Louis has never grown accustomed to it. He doesn’t think it’s possible. So, he decides to go to the kitchen and steal some food, like a sneaky thief.

As he is searching for food inside the fridge, he almost yelps in fright when a low chuckle takes him by surprise. He slams the fridge door shut and turn around.

Louis expected Harry’s family to still be here but it’s Harry who is leaning against the jamb of the archway. He has an amused smile on his lips and his bulging arms are crossed on his chest.

“You scared me,” Louis grumbles. “I’m starving,” he adds as an explanation.

“I saved you some food,” Harry smiles.

It’s quiet while Louis heats up his food. The ding of the microwave is the only sound in the kitchen. Louis settles on a stool and starts eating the food that they took so long to cook that morning.

“Everyone’s gone,” Harry informs him. “Do you want to watch some TV with me?”

Louis chews on his food, taking more time than necessary. If Harry wants to pretend like nothing happened earlier then it makes the situation much easier. Louis doesn’t feel like he needs to run away so he nods.

“OK.”

Harry puts on an episode of Friends while Louis finishes his food.

By the third episode, Harry decides to break the pleasant silence.

“Thank you,” he whispers when there is a dull in conversation on the screen.

His eyes are still fixated on the TV. Louis shrugs and hums because he doesn’t know why Harry is thanking him. He hasn’t done anything.

“Louis,” Harry calls out.

Louis glances at him when he realises that Harry is serious and is now staring straight at him.

“Thank you. For staying, for meeting my family and for cooking with me. I know you hated all three things but... Thank you.”

Louis shrugs again.

“I don’t hate it.”

Harry doesn’t believe him, Louis can tell, but he doesn’t pressure him into revealing his deep, dark thoughts.

“It’s just not for me,” Louis adds, quieter.

He knows he doesn’t need to explain himself to Harry or anyone else but there’s something in him that urges him to. He ignores it though and Harry doesn’t ask him to elaborate.

They keep watching TV in silence until Louis’ curiosity gets the better of him.

“Gemma said something.”

“What else did she say, now?” Harry groans as he gets more comfortable on the sofa.

“Who’s Kate?”

Harry’s head snaps to him so fast there is an audible crack in his neck that makes Louis wince in sympathy. Harry doesn’t seem angry but his jaw is clenched and his eyes are sharp, not quite unkind but it’s a close call.

Louis knows he shouldn’t have asked, doesn’t even know why he’s curious in the first place or why he can’t quell that desire to get to know Harry. A bit. Asking Harry questions makes him a hypocrite and he cringes at that thought.

“I can’t believe she told you about that,” Harry breathes out a laugh that doesn’t sound amused at all.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Louis voices his thought. “It isn’t my place to know.”

“You asked which means you’re curious. You wouldn’t have asked if you didn’t want to know,” Harry points out.

There is no animosity in Harry’s voice or words but he seems ticked off. Maybe with Louis, maybe with his sister.

“I do, but you don’t have to answer. I shouldn’t have asked even if I’m curious.” I shouldn’t be curious, he adds in his head.

God knows he would be fuming if the roles were reversed and Harry had asked him such a personal question. It’s only fair for Harry to ignore him or tell him to bugger off.

Harry doesn’t, for some reason.

“Kate is my ex fiancée.”

Several thoughts jump in Louis’ head at that statement. One. What? Two. Harry was engaged to a woman? Three. Is Harry not as gay as he had let on?

His surprise must be blatant because Harry chuckles and this time, he sounds a tad amused. Louis closes his hanging mouth at the sound.

“Ex fiancée?” Louis parrots.

“Yes.”

Harry doesn’t add anything else about it, leaving Louis confused and somehow desperate to find out more. Louis is buzzing with at least a dozen questions. His fingers tap a restless dance on his thigh as he tries to focus on the TV.

“I can hear you thinking from over here,” Harry tells him, smirking.

“What happened?” Louis can’t help but ask.

It seems that Harry was waiting for that particular question. He smiles but it doesn’t reach his saddened eyes.

“She left me. We were young and in love, quite naive about the world. I asked her to marry me when I was nineteen and she said yes. That’s pretty basic.”

Harry’s attention remains on the screen though it doesn’t seem like he is watching. It’s as if he is lost in his own thoughts, in his mind somewhere where hundreds of old memories still haunt him. Memories of a time he was happy and carefree and in love.

Louis can relate to haunting memories therefore he knows he should leave it alone, stop pestering Harry with questions and kill that burning desire to know the full story. He is human, so he is not so surprised when he fails.

“How did you two meet?”

A long sigh slips past Harry’s lips. He stretches to reach the remote on the coffee table and pauses the TV. The glow of the Christmas lights next to him bounces off his face and makes his eyes more glossy. He turns to Louis.

“My father introduced us, actually. It wasn’t a spontaneous meeting,” Harry spits with so much venom that Louis understands that there is another story behind those words though he doesn’t interrupt. “I was determined to dislike Kate as soon as my dad mentioned her but I still agreed to meet her once, to get him off my back. We had lunch in this cosy little restaurant just outside Manchester and it was lovely. She was lovely. At the time, I was seventeen and she was eighteen, so why did she have any interest in me, I don’t know. She wasn’t like any other girl I had met and so unlike what I had thought she would be. Contrary to my beliefs, Kate was not snobby and shallow despite how rich her parents were. She was funny and smart and gorgeous. All the boys were drooling over her, she could have picked anyone yet she agreed to see me again for a second date. You can imagine how surprised I was. Maybe I had done something right during our second date because then there was a third date and a fourth and so on.

“As soon as I finished sixth form, we decided to move in together and we found this tiny flat in Greater Manchester that was just big enough for us two. I began university while she started her second year. It was amazing to be living together and to come back home to her every evening. We had the best time together, a super group of friends as well. Kate and I shared the same interests and had similar views on the world. It wasn’t that much surprising when I asked her to marry me a year later, when I turned nineteen. By that time, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her and wake up beside her every morning. She made me the happiest when she said yes, though my father came a close second. He was ecstatic about it.

“We went on a pre-honeymoon over the summer a few months later, too excited as we were to get away from boring, old England. It was the summer of a lifetime that I have never forgotten and will never forget. I have never been happier than that summer. I thought we could surmount everything. Together, we were invincible.”

A soft smile is hanging off Harry’s lips, his eyes lost somewhere between the sofa cushions. He is no doubt reminiscing about his past love. Louis watches him in silence. He doesn’t want to interrupt Harry’s happy thoughts so he waits until Harry shakes his head and glances at him. Louis takes it as an invitation to ask more questions.

“How did you go from being the happiest couple to...” Louis trails off, unsure how to finish this sentence without sounding like an insensitive bastard.

“To Kate leaving me?” Harry offers. Louis nods. “Well, we went skiing in the Alps that winter. The wedding was set for early June, after we were done with uni. During our trip, Kate had a really bad fall and had to be taken to the hospital. Broke her leg. She was in a wheelchair for months after that. We had to move the wedding date to August and Kate... Kate began to change. Gone was the sweet, funny, loving woman I had fallen in love with. Kate became bitter and angry. She started resenting me for helping her out. I suppose she hated to feel helpless and didn’t want to need my help though she had no choice. That’s when she must have realised that relying on me like this was too much for her. Even as the plaster got taken off and she was able to walk again, she continued to push me away. After that, Kate was barely home. She was missing dates and pub nights with our friends. I could feel her slipping through my fingers but just like air, I couldn’t catch her. Eventually, I learned that she had been cheating on me this whole time. I was ready to overlook this mistake and work with her to fix our relationship because I loved her but she didn’t want to try. She called off our engagement that had been dragging on for months and fucked off with her yoga instructor. Last I heard, they’re married and have two children.”

Louis can only sit in silence when Harry stops talking. There are no words coming to his messy mind. Too many thoughts collide with each other making it difficult to focus on one.

At first glance, he’d never think that Harry has had his heart broken. He’s so full of life and kind and, if Louis puts his own cynical views aside, why would anyone want to cause him pain? It shocks him to figure out that this feeling tugging at his chest is him feeling sorry for Harry. For sweet, kind-hearted Harry.

“Are you not angry?”

If he was in his position, Louis knows he would be. He’d be so bitter that he’d drive everyone away. Oh wait, he’s already done that.

“No,” Harry says with honesty. “I used to be,” he amends after a second. “But not anymore. There’s no point in resenting her for choosing happiness when I couldn’t give her that. I’m not going to lie though, it took me a while to get over it.”

Louis shakes his head in disbelief because either Harry is crazy or he truly is that incredible. Louis refuses to believe that there are still people who can forgive someone for their mistakes.

“Do you still love her?”

“No,” Harry says again without missing a beat. “Well, part of me will always keep a special place for her and what we once had. I’m still fond of her, but I’m not in love with her. It was a long time ago. Young love and all that. Another part of me thinks that I was fooling myself,” he ponders, scratching his cheek. “But anyway, she’s happy now so it means she did the right thing when she left me.”

Louis hums, thoughtful. He’s amazed at the lack of resentment in Harry’s voice. He’s been honest throughout his entire story, not once did he hesitate or stutter.

Harry resumes the show, ending their discussion.

They make it through half of the episode before Harry pauses the TV again and turns back to Louis. Louis quirks his eyebrows. Dread fills him, slow and painful the longer he waits for Harry to make up his mind.

“Louis, could I ask you a question?” Harry asks at last, his careful eyes staring at him.

Louis’ first thought is to yell ‘no’ in his mind because there is no way that he can or wants to open himself up to Harry. He knows he overstepped boundaries with Harry, couldn’t suppress his curiosity but he is not ready to do the same.

He scoffs at himself. Who is he trying to fool? He has already broken his rule multiple times since he moved in with Harry, the last time not an hour ago. Could he be more of a hypocrite?

Biting his lips, Louis is thinking hard, biding his time. He wishes something would disrupt this calm evening so that he can escape Harry’s questions.

“Forget it,” Harry murmurs when Louis still hasn’t given him an answer.

“Go on.”

Harry’s gasp hides his own when he the realisation of what he’s just said sinks in. It seems that Louis’ mouth refuses to listen to his brain anymore. Perhaps it’s due to his long exposure to Harry that makes him so talkative. Louis is not used to spending an abnormal amount of time with someone else, someone real. Harry must have a secret weapon, a way to make him blurt things out when he’d rather keep them for himself.

“Have you ever been in love?” Harry asks, still dazed.

That is not what Louis was expecting, at all. He thought perhaps Harry would ask about the fact that he’s a prostitute, maybe how he came to be one in the first place, or why he isn’t celebrating Christmas when he does know stuff about it, or maybe he’d like to know more about Louis’ childhood. Anything but that simple question.

Louis lets out a relieved breath that doesn’t go unnoticed when Harry’s lips quirk upwards. He adds a casual shrug though, pretending to be unfazed.

“Didn’t I say a few days ago that I have never dated anyone?”

“You did. You could have never dated yet still fell in love with someone,” Harry points out.

“Well, no.”

Harry’s face is unreadable as he turns back to the TV. He doesn’t press play yet. Louis sighs and curses his traitorous mouth who seems to want to pour out all his secrets.

“There was this girl, though,” he adds, earning Harry’s attention back on him.

Harry encourages him with a small smile when he takes too long to continue.

“Her name was Theresa, I think. This goes back to Year 6 though, so it’s nothing like you and Kate,” Louis warns him. Harry just nods, smile still in place. “Anyway, I used to fancy her and I thought I’d never have a chance because well, I was me, you know? So, instead of telling her, I chose the cowardly way and wrote her a letter for Valentine’s day. I poured my heart out in that letter and was very careful with my handwriting ‘cause it wasn’t the best. I even chose to write in red as that was her favourite colour. Then, I bribed one of my mates with sweets and a promise to let him kick my arse at video games. He delivered the letter for me. Next thing I know, she finds me after school and kisses me in front of all my friends and our classmates. Just like that, with no hesitation and no fear. She said thank you for the card and went home.”

Harry has a big goofy grin eating half his face when Louis glances over. He rolls his eyes, trying to hide his own smile over that fond memory that he had almost forgotten.

“What happened then?”

“Nothing,” Louis shrugs, laughing a little. “The next day I went to school with an extra cookie that I had baked myself which wasn’t very edible, if I’m honest. I handed it to her during lunch and asked if she would like to be my girlfriend. She said that I was nice but she had only kissed me as a thank you and that she wasn’t interested. It was a bummer but at least she gave me back the cookie so I guess it’s alright.”

Harry laughs out loud and Louis soon joins him. It is a little funny.

“Have you ever kissed anyone else?” Harry asks once their laughter dies down.

“What is this, twenty questions? No, I haven’t. Came close in Year 9 but her little brother interrupted just as we were about to kiss. Her brother informed her dad right away so I left their house before he could kick me arse,” Louis rolls his eyes.

“So, you’re like, a kiss virgin?” Harry asks, eyes drooping to Louis’ lips.

Red flags ring the alert in Louis’ mind. That intense, hazy look Harry has, he knows it too well. It’s the same one Harry’s had ever since they met and Louis told him that one of his rules was no kissing. Ever. Anywhere.

In his defence – though God knows why Louis’ mind would even think that – Harry has never tried to kiss him. Still, it makes Louis agitated and alarmed. He clears his throat then straightens up, glancing at the kitchen; his far away escape.

“Yeah.”

Have they always been sitting close enough for their knees to touch or has Harry leant forward a bit? Louis scoots closer to the edge of the sofa, ready to bolt should Harry attempt anything.

Harry licks his lips, his eyes still fixed on Louis’ mouth. Then, he leans against the back of the sofa and averts his gaze.

“That’s a shame,” he whispers to the ceiling.

Louis hums, fakes a yawn then stands up. He stretches his back.

“It is what it is. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

“Louis?” Harry calls out when Louis reaches the archway. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Harry.”

~

New Year’s eve brings with it the end of a very long year full of hardships and challenges. A long year where people spent most of their time working to bring food on the table and way too little time enjoying life. It’s the promise to drink until your body can’t handle one more drop of that deadly poison, and the making of resolutions you are sure to keep for the first few days and forget by the end of the first week.

Why people bother with resolutions is beyond Louis. Why would they have to be made on New Year’s eve is a mystery. Starting a new year on the right foot is not going to happen just because you made a few empty and drunk promises the night before to anyone willing to listen, swearing that this time it will be different. It never is.

That’s why Louis has never bothered with them before and he is not about to do it tonight either. Tonight is another regular night where he goes to bed starved and bruised and wakes up on 1st January just as starved and bruised.

This year though, it is different. He’s not alone, for starters. Even if it isn’t his choice – not completely at least – he is not alone but with Harry. Or well, he lives in the same flat as Harry would be more correct. The second reason is that Harry is hosting a party, or as he said to Louis ‘a small gathering’.

Harry had asked him his thoughts on him having a party on New Year’s eve and told him that should Louis feel uncomfortable having people over, Harry would call off the party.

As the bell rings for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, Louis wonders what Harry’s vision of ‘a small gathering’ is compared to a proper party. This is no ‘small gathering’ and Louis fears what Harry Styles throwing a party would be like.

Louis is cooped up in the spare room. He has been since seven that evening before Harry’s guests started arriving. Harry’s invitation to his gathering extended to him but Louis had no wish to stand amongst a sea of drunk people, listening to their ramblings and be forced to socialise. Harry had known that yet he had still asked, perhaps hoping that Louis would change his mind.

Just like Christmas, Louis hasn’t. Harry has promised that all his friends are chilled and kind with a side of eccentricity, but nothing to be afraid of. It hasn’t reassured Louis in the slightest so his answer had still been no.

Now, at a quarter to midnight, the ruckus caused by Harry’s guests is boisterous, bordering on illegal. It makes his head throb with a painful headache that is impossible to ignore after suffering through hours of deafening music. There’s a hammer in his head, punching his forehead in rhythm with the beat of the bass pulsing through the speakers.

People are laughing and having conversations, their speech slurred by the quantity of alcohol they have wolfed down. Louis can’t take it anymore, so he leaves the room, sneaks upstairs where it’s much quieter and much less crowded, walks by the indoor pool without a glance and exits the flat.

The balcony is deserted, as he had hoped, but Louis doesn’t want to test his luck too much, so he grabs the blanket sitting on the lover’s seat and climbs the little steps leading up to the roof.

A quick look around lets him know that, as he had predicted, no one is hanging out here. It’s no wonder, Louis thinks, the air is crisp and makes his fingers go numb in a matter of minutes. It’s almost enough to deter him but he braves the cold and sits on the edge of the wall like he had done on his first day here.

Out here, the music has almost faded, it’s only a dull humming sound that doesn’t hurt Louis’ head as much. The cold air helps him breathe and clear his thoughts a little.

Louis watches as his breath leaves the prison of his mouth, twirls into the air and gets blown away by the chasing, playful wind. It disappears into the night as if it had never existed. Louis holds the blanket tighter around his shoulders trying to warm his freezing body. He gets lost in the tall flat buildings around him and the thousands lights that stretch the horizon and hide the luminescent stars.

He hears it loud as day when a pair of unsure feet stagger up the stairs. There’s a quiet curse that was perhaps meant to be whispered followed by a single giggle before the person realises that Louis is there.

“Oh.”

It’s a man, with a raucous voice like that, and he sounds confused. Louis doesn’t turn around to see who it is. He braces himself for the irritating conversation that is bound to happen.

“I’m not alone,” the man states, his words slow and still uncertain.

Louis bites back a snarky remark. It’s not worth the trouble of getting worked up over a drunk stranger. Besides, and Louis needs the reminder before he forgets himself, the guy is one of Harry’s posh friends, not one of the usual drunks that Louis has come across over the years.

“Hey there,” the man greets him.

The stranger is too loud for the quiet of the roof and to Louis’ general liking. He stumbles another two times before he reaches the outer wall of the building where Louis is sitting, legs dangling above the street below. The man is panting by the time he leans his back against the wall, much like Harry had done that first day.

Louis lifts his brows at the man. He’s older than Louis, that’s obvious from the way his dark brown hair is tinged with a bit of white here and there, and older than Harry too, though Louis doesn’t give him more than forty years old. His face is quite plain, with a mouth a bit too big for his face as he smiles at Louis and boring, murky brown eyes that look lifeless.

“Hi?”

The stranger grins and flicks his quiffed hair away from where they fall, limp, on his forehead. He extends one long hand towards Louis, expecting a handshake in return. Louis glances at the hand before his attention is back on the buildings in front of him.

He hears the man huff out a laugh before he speaks again, not discouraged by Louis’ lack of enthusiasm.

“The name’s Nick. What’s yours, beautiful?”

Louis almost gags at the lame pick up line, one of the worst he has heard so far. He’s been flirted with before, though it has been rare, and every single time Louis has wanted to cut his own ears off or gauge his eyes out. Sometimes both at the same time.

Flirting is degrading, but perhaps that’s due to Louis’ cynical brain, he’s not sure.

“Mine is I’m not interested so go back to where you came from,” Louis snaps at Nick, not wanting to lose time with fake politeness.

He doesn’t expect Nick to laugh. It’s obnoxious, noisy and just plain weird. Nick makes him uncomfortable.

“Ouch. You’re not very nice, are you?”

“You’re not very bright, are you?” Louis shoots back, temper flaring. He has no time to give to idiots.

“Why because you act like a stuck-up virgin?” Nick sniggers.

Louis snorts, baffled by Nick’s confidence that is nothing like Gemma’s. He doesn’t reply, he doesn’t owe any explanation to this dimwit he met five minutes ago.

“Aw did I guess right?” Nick coos and pinches Louis’ hip.

Nick steps closer, inching his head towards him and sending a whiff of all the strong alcohol he has drank during the evening. Louis’ nose wrinkles at the smell and he recoils from Nick’s face.

“That’s alright if you are. I could teach you a thing or two,” Nick whispers, trying to sound enticing.

The filthy invitation falls in deaf ears. Louis doesn’t stop the gag when it crawls up his throat. He’s met his fair share of cocky men like Nick before. They’re all the same. They think with what they have between their legs instead of using their poor, few neurons that are in desperate need of exercise.

“No, thank you.”

Louis slides away from him. The music coming out from the opened windows is still as noisy as ever so Louis would very much like to stay up here. However, if this idiot is not planning on leaving him alone, Louis will have to sacrifice his ears and his head.

“Oh, come on,” Nick scoffs. “I can tell you’re gay, it’s written all over your face and if you’re out here now, three minutes from midnight, it means you’re alone and have no one to kiss.”

At that second bout of over confidence, Louis jumps off the wall and lands back on the roof. He doesn’t bother with an answer as he starts making his way towards the stairs.

A hand on his arm stops him before he can take more than two steps.

“Hey now, I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m just a tad too drunk right now hence why Harry sent me up here to cool off. A bit of fresh air and a cute boy can do wonders for the mind. I’m glad you were already here, gorgeous,” Nick rants, adding a flirty smirk here and there.

Nick must think he is irresistible and that he can charm his way through life yet Louis is not one to fall for that kind of tricks. He yanks his arm away from this man who treats him like a little boy.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he snarls, lips curling.

Nick holds his hands up for a second. Down in the flat, the countdown to midnight starts. Harry and his guests are shouting so loud that their voices carry the sound through the windows. It’s as if Louis was standing right next to them.

“Jesus, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I was complimenting you, it’s not a crime, is it? You’re fit and you’re pretty, can you really blame me?” Nick justifies his behaviour. “But you’re like one of those dogs who always bark but never bite, aren’t you? I can see it,” he winks at him.

“What part of ‘I’m not interested’ do you not understand?” Louis retorts, bewildered by his own self control when Nick just called him a bloody dog.

Chants of ‘Happy New Year’ echo in the entire building and down the street as the clock strikes midnight. Louis groans because he has missed his chance to creep back into the flat, unnoticed, and sneak into the spare room.

“How can I be forgiven?” Nick asks with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.

Louis ignores him and turns away with the firm intention to get away from Nick and his repulsive flirting. However, Nick seems to have another idea in his head because he grabs Louis’ arm again and pushes Louis flushed against his chest, invading Louis’ personal space.

“How about a kiss, mm? Come on, you know you want it.”

“I said, don’t fucking touch me,” Louis grits through his teeth trying to control his shaking limbs so he doesn’t punch Nick in the balls.

Nick doesn’t let him go. His grip tightens around Louis’ hip, no doubt leaving the skin red.

“Oi, Nick, he told you to fuck off, mate,” someone yells from behind them.

Louis turns his head in time to see Harry run up the stairs and fall on his face. Harry lets outs a low grunt of pain that lasts a couple seconds before he’s scrambling back to his feet. He half runs, half limps towards them, his eyes trained on Nick’s hand still gripping Louis’ hip.

“Harry, hey, we’re a little busy here,” Nick fakes a smile.

Louis snorts and pushes Nick away from him. It’s not complicated because Nick is drunk off his face. Harry reaches them and stands in front of Louis.

“Leave him alone, Nick, he’s not one of your toys,” Harry says, angry and firm, his voice rough.

There’s something else as well but Louis doesn’t care to find out.

“It’s just some harmless fun, H, don’t you worry.”

“You’re old enough to be his dad, Nick. Why don’t you find someone your own age?”

Louis squints his eyes at the back of Harry’s head. When has he ever let on to Harry that he was a defenceless kid in need of protection? He eyes Harry’s tight fists and the protective stance he has adopted, the way he tries to shield Louis from Nick. His anger overflows and he doesn’t stop it.

“Fuck off, both of you,” Louis snaps at them. They both turn to Louis. “I’m not a kid, OK, Harry? I can take care of myself. And you, Nick, piss off. I’ve told you twice I’m not interested so get that through your thick brain.”

Harry preens like a proud peacock and grins at Louis, as if he has won the fight. Louis glares at him. Alcohol turns people into gigantic idiots and Harry is not immune.

“Fine, Jesus. You guys are no fun,” Nick pouts as he trudges between them to leave the roof.

Once he’s disappeared from sight, Harry groans and cups his knee. He limps towards the closest chair under the tent and plops down on it.

“Ow, ow, ow. That really hurt,” he whines and makes puppy eyes at Louis.

Louis rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest as he stares down at Harry.

“That’s what happens when you try to be a bloody knight in shining armour.”

“I’m bleeding,” Harry gasps after touching his bruised chin.

He shows his hand to Louis.

“It’s just a scratch, you’ll live.”

“You have no sympathy for me,” Harry complains.

He makes a face at his dirty hand and wipes the blood on his trousers. Then, he looks up at Louis. All of a sudden, his face is serious.

“Are you OK?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure? Nick tends to be hands-y when he’s drunk. I wouldn’t have sent him up here if I had known you were hiding out here. I’m sorry,” Harry frowns, seeming contrite and upset with himself.

“Harry,” Louis sighs, pinching his nose. Can the night be over already? “I don’t need you to save me or some bullshit like that. I’m a grown man, I’ve handled worse than drunk Nick.”

“Clearly,” Harry mutters under his breath but Louis hears him anyway.

“Fuck you, Harry. I don’t need you, OK? You have to understand that,” Louis spits, getting riled up again.

“Yes, you do,” Harry snaps back at him, annoyance flashing in his glassy eyes, jaw clenched. “I don’t know why it’s so damn hard for you to admit.”

Harry stands up and for someone who was limping a minute ago, he has no problem jogging towards Louis.

“You’re drunk Harry, careful what you’re going to say,” Louis warns.

Either Harry doesn’t care or he doesn’t listen. He lifts his hand towards Louis’ face, fingertips grazing his cheek before he drops it.

“I’m more than sober enough to know that you need me, Louis, as much as I need you,” Harry murmurs, much softer.

They stare at each other in a silent combat. Louis won’t be the one to lose. The electric atmosphere between them is palpable and makes Louis take a step back. He needs to breathe but being with Harry is as if he is holding his breath underwater, smothered by Harry’s entire being.

“You know nothing, Harry.”

Harry lets out a frustrated groan. He runs his hands through his hair, messing with his curls and greasing them.

“That’s because you won’t let me in, Louis,” Harry shouts from the top of his lungs, his crazed eyes alight with fury.

“I don’t owe you anything,” Louis says, voice even and flat. Final.

He leaves Harry alone on the roof and goes back inside the flat where the noise volume is loud enough to hurt his eardrums. Louis hides in the spare room until the music dies down and everyone leaves.

It’s three in the morning by the time it happens and Louis just wants to sleep for a long, long time. He has started dozing off, welcoming sleep with open arms when a thud out in the corridor startles him awake. A low grunt and a rough curse let him know it’s Harry who has fallen.

Louis waits a few minutes and when he still doesn’t hear Harry’s bedroom door close shut for the night, he sighs. Pushing the warm duvet to the foot of the bed, Louis’ feet pads to the door. He creaks the door open an inch and jumps in surprise when he is met with Harry’s face.

Harry is lying on the floor, arms wide on either side of his body like a star fish and his face is turned towards Louis’ door. It’s dark in the corridor, the only source of light coming from the moon shining through the window behind Louis.

“What the hell are you doing?” Louis asks in a harsh whisper making Harry pout.

“I fell,” Harry says, frowning as if he can’t comprehend how he managed to do that.

“Well get up and go to bed.”

The whine that leaves Harry’s throat is high-pitched and lasts too long for the late hour of the night.

“I can’t,” he moans.

“Bloody hell,” Louis curses under his breath.

Opening his door all the way, Louis steps into the corridor.

“Come on, I’ll help you,” he grumbles, extending a hand.

Harry stares at it in wonder, a small smile growing on his face. Then, he giggles for no apparent reason other than his drunkenness. It makes Louis wonder why he isn’t in bed, sleeping, and leaving Harry to deal with his sorry arse on his own. Perhaps if Harry slept on the floor, it would teach him not to drink so much.

“Come on, Harry,” Louis presses him, nudging Harry’s side with his big toe.

“Stop, it tickles,” Harry cackles like a mad witch. He waves his hand in the air trying to catch Louis’ foot.

“I’ll leave you out here if you don’t stop being an idiot,” Louis threatens.

At that, Harry’s eyes widen and he leans back on his elbows, peering up at Louis through his eyelashes. Perhaps he tries to look cute but he only manages to look like a kicked puppy. Louis is far from impressed; he doesn’t like dogs.

“No, please, Louis,” Harry pleads, his eyes gleaming when the moonlight hits the green of his pupils. “Don’t go. You’re mad at me I can’t go to bed knowing that you’re angry with me. If I do, I might wake up in the morning and you’ll be gone.”

Louis knows it’s Harry’s drunk mind that forces him to ramble that much. If Harry was sober and conscious enough, he wouldn’t be as open about his feelings. Or maybe he would be, Louis doesn’t know anymore.

It’s too confusing. Harry is too confusing. Louis is tired and the headache he’s been suffering from for the past few hours doesn’t help his brain. It makes it even more difficult to think.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he says at last.

Harry is still making puppy eyes at him but this time, he obliges when Louis extends his hand. He grabs it and Louis has to put all his strength into lifting Harry’s drunk body to its feet.

“Come on,” Louis says, a bit too soft.

He starts walking down the corridor when Harry slumps against his side. His mess of curls lolls on Louis’ shoulders, tickling his neck. Suppressing a sigh, Louis wraps an arm around Harry’s waist to help him walk.

They take twice as long as they would if Harry was not drunk but they manage to get to Harry’s bedroom in the end, Harry tripping just once. Louis counts this as a success.

It’s the first time that Louis enters Harry’s personal space. That’s not how he had imagined going into Harry’s room. In fact, he hadn’t ever thought that he would see Harry’s room at all. He had no reason to.

Once the light is on, the first thing that Louis is sees is the huge double bed in front of them with the head just under the window. Its dark red colour enhances the cream colour of the walls and makes the bed stands out even more. There are two night stands on either side of the bed, some paintings on the walls and a small mirror, but no wardrobe.

They stagger inside the room until they reach the bed. Louis doesn’t hesitate for more than a second before dumping Harry on it.

“Hey,” Harry complains, dragging the word out.

He rolls onto his back, his eyes finding Louis with ease. His lips pout, the bottom one sticking out a bit too much.

“Go to bed, now,” Louis tells him.

His job here is done. Harry is safe in bed and won’t bother him for the rest of the night. Well, he hopes so at least because his eyes are burning with lack of sleep.

“Wait,” Harry calls out when Louis is about to close the door behind him. “Can you clean my wounds? Earned them in battle,” Harry says with a proud smile.

Louis huffs out a laugh but schools his feature when Harry’s grin widens at the sound. He sighs just to prove that it is an annoying task – though he doesn’t mind that much, in spite of his tiredness – and flicks Harry in the shin, telling him to stop with his wolfish grin.

There are another two doors in the bedroom beside the main one. Louis supposes that one of them must be the en-suite that Harry was telling him about when he first got here. He opens the first one on the right but is met with a gigantic wardrobe.

He can’t count the number of clothing racks fast enough. There are too many and perhaps just as many drawers, concealing even more clothes. In the middle of the room sits a two person’s bench and at the back, a foot to ceiling mirror that reflects Louis’ gaping expression. Right. For a second, he had forgotten how rich Harry is.

Louis closes his mouth and exits the room. He opens the other door beside the closet and is relieved to find the bathroom. It’s pretty much the same as the one Louis uses, except that as well as the bathtub, there is a normal shower in the corner on the left.

Searching the cupboards under the two sets of sinks, Louis locates the first aid kit. He takes it then goes back to the room where Harry hasn’t moved an inch.

“Sit up,” Louis demands, voice gentle.

Harry groans in answer and hides half of his face in the duvet under him, earning another sigh from Louis. Louis drops the kit on the bed and helps Harry sit up, stabilising him when Harry wobbles and almost falls flat on his face, again.

In an instant, Louis is sitting next to Harry and cleaning the wound on his chin that is not as bad as dramatic Harry has made it out to be.

“Are you still angry with me?” Harry whispers a few seconds later, when Louis is applying the disinfectant. He hisses but grinds his teeth together.

“No, Harry, I’m not angry with you,” Louis says slowly with a bit of a delay.

What shocks him the most is how true that statement is. He should be angry with Harry for trying to rescue him, but he just isn’t and he doesn’t understand.

The more time passes, the more Harry confuses him. He is able to make Louis open up without being pushy and that’s the biggest mystery Louis has come face to face with. He’s made a promise to himself that he’d never let anyone in yet he hates to say it but sometimes it feels like Harry is able to break his walls.

Harry makes him weak in a way he has never felt before. When he’s with Harry he feels helpless and stripped naked and has no way to protect himself from Harry.

Louis shakes his head to clear his thoughts. He’s delirious; it’s late, the lack of sleep is driving him insane, that’s all this is. He is not affected by Harry.

“There, all patched up,” Louis announces, louder than intended.

He gets off the bed so fast it’s as if the flat was on fire. He doesn’t get far before Harry’s delicate and slender fingers wrap around his wrist in a gentle grip.

“What about my knee?” Harry pouts, biting his bottom lip.

“What about it?” Louis sighs, longing for the warmth of the bed he left behind to help Harry out.

Instead of giving him a clear answer consisting of actual words, Harry shuffles out of his trousers, almost falling in the process, and throws them on the floor. He points a finger at his bruised knee where the blood has long since coagulated.

“It’s tiny, you’ll be fine.” Louis rubs his forehead, massaging the headache that still hasn’t left him.

“Please, Louis, it hurts,” Harry whines, tugging on Louis’ hand to bring him back to the bed.

“Whose fault is that,” Louis mutters to himself though he does sit back down next to Harry.

“Nick,” Harry spits without missing a beat, his eyes darkening. For a moment there, he almost looks sober. “Nick and his fucking hands on you”

It dawns on Louis right then that Harry is jealous, perhaps has been jealous since he saw them on the roof. Louis curses himself. How did it take him so long to understand that?

He frowns at Harry’s unwarranted jealousy. It’s not as if Louis had been doing anything with Nick and even if he had, it’s not any of Harry’s business.

“Don’t frown, you’ll get wrinkles,” Harry whispers, rubbing his thumb over Louis’ furrowed brows.

Louis moves away from the sudden intimate touch that if Harry were sober, he would never dare to do.

“Have you honestly not learnt anything about me since I moved here?” Louis asks a minute later, still bothered by Harry’s words.

He can’t fathom the idea that Harry is jealous over one of his dickhead of a friend who’s made a move on Louis. As if Louis would be charmed by a prick like Nick.

As he looks at him, Louis notices that the green in Harry’s eyes is returning. They’re not as glassy as they were out in the corridor. Harry hasn’t stopped staring at him to the point Louis wonders if he’s even breathing.

“What?” Harry whispers a beat too late and yeah, still as drunk as before.

“Do you think I would let anyone touch me? What, because I sleep with men for money you think I’d go for anyone who’d have me? Is that your opinion of me?” He is hurt and just a bit offended that Harry, of all people, would believe that.

“No,” Harry shakes his head, his gaze intent on Louis face “I never thought that and I know you’re more than that. I wish you’d see it as well, Louis. I just-” He sighs and runs a frustrated hand through his messy hair. “I’m sorry but seeing you so close to Nick like that, I just snapped.”

“You do realise that I wasn’t interested, don’t you?” Louis raises both eyebrows at him.

He knows he doesn’t have to explain himself to Harry but after making it clear that he is not interested in Nick, the tight feeling that was clutching his heart eases off.

“Yeah, yes, I do. I’m sorry but I can’t help but be jealous by anyone who stands too close to you. You don’t let anyone in, least of all me, so when I saw him touching you, I lost it for a second. I’m sorry.”

“Harry,” Louis sighs, tired of this conversation and of Harry’s apologies. “I don’t let anyone in and apart from my business, I don’t let anyone touch me.”

Harry groans in frustration, pulling at his curls, the dark look in his eyes returning.

“That’s the problem, Louis. Please, let me in. Just, let me in, let me be your friend.”

It seems that Harry doesn’t realise he is leaning in as he speaks. His eyes are half closed, locked on Louis’ mouth. Louis might not have any friends but he knows that Harry’s behaviour contradicts his words and he has no intention of being just friends with Louis.

With that in mind, Louis gets up and takes several steps back, putting some distance between them. His chest tightens a bit too much. His breathing comes out in ragged, laboured breaths as a panic attack makes him shake all over.

“You should sleep, it’s late,” he says quite loud, breaking Harry from his trance.

For a second, Harry sighs, disappointed before he nods and shuffles under the duvet. Before Louis closes the door, Harry calls out for him.

“You sure you’re not mad at me?” He sounds small, insecure perhaps so Louis bites back his sigh.

“No, Harry. Goodnight,” Louis reassures him with a soft voice.

Harry’s grin is hidden in the pillow. He mumbles something that Louis doesn’t understand and starts snoring a second later.

~

The day after New Year’s eve is awkward, to say the least. They didn’t see each other before noon but when they did, Louis wishes he had stayed in the spare room.

In spite of his obvious hangover – “you look awful”, Louis had said –, Harry seems to remember everything that he has said and done the night before. As soon as Harry notices him, his eyes shoot open wide and he rushes towards him before stopping himself mod track. He stumbles over his words as he tries to apologise to Louis.

It’s embarrassing and Louis just wants to forget about it all. He says as much to Harry, much for his sake as well as Harry’s. It takes a while for it to sink into Harry’s brain but he nods in the end, perhaps feeling just as embarrassed as Louis.

They don’t talk about it. It becomes an agreement. They don’t talk about their fight and Harry’s jealousy and frustration. Louis finds that ignoring his problems is much easier than dealing with them.

It becomes easier to be in Harry’s presence again when Harry returns to work in early January. Louis is able to breathe better, knowing that he won’t bump into Harry if he happens to leave the bedroom.

In fact, Louis doesn’t even see much of Harry for the whole month. Harry is busy at work and works extra long days, only coming back home well after nine most days, sometimes later than that.

All this freedom – if he puts Agnes aside – and Louis spends it all in Harry’s library, reading books all day. It was perfect before – the best distraction, really – but now there’s a restless feeling inside of him that won’t go away. It stays in the pit of his stomach, whining until Louis can’t take it anymore.

The fight he had with Harry opened his eyes. He’s already let himself be too close to Harry, he’s opened up too much to him already and he knows, he can see the way Harry looks at him. He’s far from stupid. The drunken revelations from Harry confirmed what he already suspected; he has to do something.

That’s why one morning when Agnes arrives, Louis sneaks into the living room while she’s busy somewhere else and steals the spare keys that she uses to come inside the flat. Louis is out the door in an instant, not wanting to be discovered.

Once outside, it’s easy to fall back into his old habits. He knows where he’s going, he knows what he’s going to do and he has never been more determined.

~

Louis has always found it strange how once your body gets acquainted with something – such as swimming or riding a bike – it never forgets how it’s done. It doesn’t matter if you don’t swim or ride your bike for years after your childhood is over, your body never forgets the movements that took so long to memorise.

For years now, Louis’ body has known hunger and pain in the form of bruises and wounds. Although you never truly forget about it, it’s easier to put hunger aside once you no longer suffer from it. Louis’ body, once too thin as if it was caving in from the inside, is now firm and toned where no ribs are seen underneath the skin. Food is never rare in Harry’s flat and Louis has started to forget about hunger.

Pain, though, is a different story. Even if his skin doesn’t sport any bruises or wounds from his time on the streets, scars remain; white, big, ugly. Like a ghost on his skin, Louis sometimes can’t shake off the feeling of a blade sinking into his flesh, or the feeling of rough hands marking his skin.

These are harder to forget.

Falling back into old habits is simple because your mind and body are so familiar with them that they just roll with it.

Louis doesn’t bat an eye as the mirror sends him back the reflection of the new bruises littering his back. Louis observes the finger marks on his hips and near his neck as well as the pink traces that nails left behind them. They look worse than they feel and for some reason, the sight of them is reassuring in a familiar way as if Louis is back in control.

The constant iron grip around his heart, compressing it so tight it feels as if it will explode, is more lenient now. Its releasing its grip the more bruises appear on his skin.

“Why did you do that?”

It’s the first time in weeks that _he_ opens his mouth. _He_ has spent all of January in silence, watching from the side-lines and lurking in the shadows. Sometimes, Louis would catch his gaze but he would fade without uttering a single word.

“You know why,” Louis doesn’t glance at him, too busy as he is staring at his back and counting the bruises.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” the boy taunts him with knowing eyes.

Louis ignores him. Thirty-six. Thirty-six bruises including his back and his sternum, hips and belly.

“Do you think he will be happy?” The boy asks.

Sighing, Louis takes the bait and turns around.

“Who?” He asks though he thinks he might know what the boy will say next.

“Harry.”

Louis sighs again. He knew it. The boy seems to be nourishing a deep obsession for Harry that Louis doesn’t comprehend.

“When will you drop it?” Louis mumbles, looking back at his bruises.

The boy sighs at him. He is shaking his head in disappointment as if he had been hoping for a different answer but was expecting the one he got.

“When will you learn?” The boy pleads, his blue eyes starting to water.

“Never, I guess,” Louis sasses back.

There is a noise echoing in the bathroom that has Louis snapping his head up because it didn’t come from the boy. In the mirror, the boy is gone and Louis’ reflection is staring back at him.

His attention diverts towards the bathroom door where it stands ajar. Louis frowns, certain that he had closed it before his shower.

Walking towards the door, Louis pushes it open before sticking his head out. He looks left and right in the empty corridor. The silence is eerie and the hairs at the back of his neck stand out.

“Agnes?” Louis calls out.

He feels stupid, looking for the older woman because she left about an hour ago.

“Is anyone there?”

No one answers him. Louis puts his shirt and jumper back on and ventures outside. The kitchen is empty but as he gets to the dining room, he notices Harry taking his coat off by the front door.

“Hey,” Louis calls out, startling Harry.

He won’t admit it, least of all to Harry, but he is relieved to see him.

“Good evening, Louis. How was your day?” Harry enquires as he starts to make his way over.

“Fine. Did you just get home?” He asks, frowning.

“Yes, why? Is everything alright?” Harry asks him with a slight frown of his own.

Louis blinks a few times, trying to wrap his head around the words. He nods then with a tentative smile. Harry just came back and he must have imagined the noise. He is being paranoid, that’s all this is.

“Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine. Come on, I’m starving.”

~

By the end of February, Louis has saved an incredible sum of money, more than he could ever think possible. He sends it all away on the last day. To have his life goal back is such a weight off of his shoulders. Louis is relieved to finally be doing something again. The feeling of working and earning money almost makes him feel good about himself. He had missed it. Life was never the same without it, as if a part of the puzzle was missing.

Now, he feels more at ease.

For the past couple months, Louis has been able to keep his secret without a problem. It’s almost as if it has been too easy. Agnes has stopped checking in on him every five minutes of the day. She never realises that Louis sneaks out of the flat. Since Louis has had a double made, he doesn’t need to steal her keys anymore. He can come in and out of the flat, unnoticed, whenever he wants to so he uses it to his advantage.

As for Harry, he’s always at work, these days. Six days out of seven, Harry is at the office so there is no reason for Louis to worry about him.

On the days Harry spends at the flat, Louis stays in and indulges him when he asks Louis if he wants to spend the day together. They’ve gone on walks a couple times. Sometimes they’d spend the day binge watching films or TV series. Other times, Harry would drive them out of London so they could visit different towns.

If he is honest, Louis has to say that those days with Harry are the best. They have a good time, there’s no point denying it. They laugh together sometimes and it’s just, nice. Sometimes, Louis doesn’t want the day to end because he knows that when he’ll wake up the next morning, Harry will be gone and Louis... Well, Louis misses him. Sometimes.

So, his secret is safer than ever. Louis sneaks out of the flat around one in the afternoon, when he knows that Agnes is busy drinking her coffee on the balcony. He travels through most of London before arriving at his final destination.

The door opens and Marcus welcomes him with a grunt as his eyes assess Louis. Louis can only take a couple stepsl inside the flat before Marcus grips him by the hair and yanks him forward. He stumbles a few times before they make it to the dirty sofa and Marcus shoves him head first.

In comparison to some of the others that Louis has contacted again, his sessions with Marcus are never that long. Half an hour tops. Today is no different and after Marcus has got what he wanted, he throws Louis out of the flat. His trousers are hanging above his ankles and his aching wrists are red, bruises already forming at alarming speed.

Marcus pays well. He’s perhaps the one client that pays the most, so Louis doesn’t care what he does to him. His body protests, of course, but his mind is stronger.

Louis adjusts his clothes and hair, his scalp burning from all the yanking, before making his way out of the building. It’s raining and by the time he gets back to Harry’s flat, he is soaking wet, clothes clinging everywhere.

It’s not four yet when Louis sneaks back through the front door, meaning that Agnes should be busy upstairs or at the very least, in the kitchen, cooking their dinner. Either way, she is too far away to hear the door click shut or the squeaking sound his shoes make as he walks further inside the flat.

The last thing he expects when he looks up is to see Harry standing in the living room. His curls are an untidy mess on his head like a bird’s nest, his eyes are wide, panicked yet relieved when they land on Louis and his work shirt is half unbuttoned and sticking out of his suit trousers.

“Where the hell were you?” Harry shouts at him.

His voice echoes off the walls, surprising Louis because one, why is Harry yelling at him, and two, what is he doing back so early?

Louis blinks at him a few times then walks towards him. He stops at a safe distance from Harry who is staring at him with furrowed eyebrows.

“Out,” he replies, voice careful because this Harry facing him is a stranger.

Anger is written on every features of Harry’s face, on every twitch of his brows and every tilt of his mouth.

“Out,” Harry spits back at him, running a hand through his hair. “What the fuck, Louis? Do you know how worried I was? I came back early to surprise you and you were not here. I thought you were gone, didn’t even leave a note or tell Agnes, nothing.”

“I didn’t know I was your prisoner,” Louis rolls his eyes, annoyed with Harry.

“You know you’re not but you can’t just leave like that and scare the shit out of me, OK? What were you doing? Where were you?” Harry swears.

“Since when do I have to report my every move?” Louis sasses back, lifting a brow and crossing his arms on his chest, pressing the wet material against his skin.

“Answer the goddamn question, Louis! Where were you?”

“I don’t have to answer to you, Harry,” Louis spits at him.

Who does Harry think he is anyway? Does he expect Louis to stay locked inside of his flat for the rest of his days and let Harry provide him with everything?

He turns away, ready to walk away from the fight before any of them say something that they’ll come to regret later, especially Harry who shouldn’t even be asking him those questions in the first place.

A firm hand on his wrist pulls him back in front of Harry. The grip is too strong and the fingers press right against the new sets of bruises on his skin. Louis winces and wriggles to try and get his arm back but to no avail. Harry is too strong as he is hurting him without even knowing it.

“You’re doing it again, aren’t you?” Harry squints his eyes at him as he looks all over Louis’ face, as if daring him to lie.

“Let go of me,” Louis grits out through the pain.

It falls in deaf ears though. Harry brings Louis’ right arm closer to him and pulls the jumper sleeve up to Louis’ elbow, revealing the fresh bruised skin.

“What the fuck, Harry? You’re hurting me, let go!”

“Me, I’m hurting you?” Harry looks incredulous before a loud cackle leaves his mouth. It sounds far from amused though, his eyes are getting darker by the second. “I’m not the one who hurts you, Louis, I never have been,” he says, voice cold as ice.

Louis has never seen Harry as angry as he is now and he can’t lie and say he isn’t at least a bit scared, because he is. He is frightened of Harry in this moment. The Harry that he has come to know and appreciate over the past few months is long gone.

“Look at that, Louis,” Harry’s ferocious voice growls, shaking the wrist in front of Louis’ face. “Did I do that? Did I hurt you? God, I’m a complete idiot for thinking you’d quit on your own. I knew you wouldn’t stop once you’d started again.”

“How did you find out?”

It’s not the question he should be asking. In fact, Louis should push Harry away from him and demand to be left alone but his curiosity has grown ten times stronger since he moved in with Harry. So much that he can’t keep his mouth shut. He has stopped trying to pretend he isn’t curious. Now he asks questions whenever they cross his head.

“I saw your back. How long were you planning on hiding it from me? Did you think I would never figure out that you’re a prostitute again?”

“It was you,” Louis accuses him. He manages to break Harry’s hold on his wrist. “You were there that day. Fuck, Harry, you invaded my privacy, what is wrong with you?”

For a second, Harry looks remorseful but it is soon replaced by another bout of anger. He invades Louis’ personal space again, forcing Louis to take a step back.

“What is wrong with me? I’m not the one who’s having sex with men for money so don’t give me that crap. What the hell is going on through your head, huh? Why are you doing this? Why- why- is the life I’ve offered you not enough that you have to let some random guys hurt and fuck you?”

“That’s none of your business, Harry. Back off.”

Louis is just as harsh as Harry. He doesn’t want to hold back anymore because Harry doesn’t even stop to think about how hurtful his questions are. His harshness causes the opposite effect in Harry. He’s not deterred and seems more fuelled by the response he extracts out of Louis.

“Yes, it’s my fucking business! We’re friends, I look after you and this is how you repay me!”

Harry’s yells are so loud Louis winces. He is not the same person anymore. Sweet, kind Harry is nowhere to be seen. Instead, Harry’s body is trembling, his hands are curled into fists and the lovely green grass of his eyes has been replaced in its entirety by a black pool. There’s a red and angry vein pulsing in the middle of his forehead, accentuating his rage.

Louis doesn’t think that Harry will hit him but anger does strange things to people, even if they’re as nice as Harry. Out of precaution, he backs away, edging towards the front door. If the situation gets too heated, he can always run.

“We’re not friends,” Louis says, standing his ground and lifting his chin up.

Even as he says it, Louis knows it’s a lie. They have never put a word on their relationship – friendship, companionship? – but they have grown closer the past couple months. They do things together, they’re not cooped up in Harry’s flat all the time.

Harry seems to know it too considering he has a humourless laugh.

“Stop lying to yourself, Louis. We are friends, admit it and accept it.” He pauses and takes an intake of breath as if to calm himself down. His hands are still curled into fists and his body is still trembling. “Why would you let them hurt you again? You’re safe here, aren’t you? I’ve never done anything to hurt you, ever. I don’t-”

Harry stops talking again and looks away, as if the sight of Louis is too much to bear, and yeah. That hurts. Much more than it should or than Louis is willing to admit.

If he can’t tell Harry the truth, he can at least reassure him and tell him that he is not the reason why Louis is doing what he does. He can’t let Harry think that. Even if it didn’t hurt Louis, it’s hurting Harry and Louis doesn’t want to be the person who makes Harry as dejected as he seems to be right now.

“It has nothing to do with you or being safe. It’s not your fault,” Louis adds.

“Then why? If you need money, why didn’t you tell me? We would have figured something out together,” Harry says, defeated and shaking his head.

“So you would give me money and make me dependent on you? I don’t think so,” Louis tells him with honesty.

He sighs, drags a hand over his face. He’s relieved that their fight seems to be over or at the very least has calmed down enough for them to speak like normal adults.

Harry sits on the edge of the sofa, leans on his elbows and buries his face in his hands. Like that, he looks powerless, defenceless almost, as if he’s lost everything that makes him himself.

Louis watches in silence. He comes closer but doesn’t sit down next to him yet. He can’t, not after the way Harry has lost his mind. Louis doesn’t understand how it happened in the first place.

“Louis,” Harry says after a couple minutes. His voice is serious and so are his features as he looks up at him. “If you need money, I can help you find a job, OK? Anything but that.”

“Yeah, sure,” Louis snorts. “I never graduated, Harry. I don’t have any qualifications or experience. No one would hire me. Did you think I wanted to be a prostitute? Did you think it was a choice?”

“I don’t know! You don’t tell me anything. What am I supposed to think? I want to know, though, you know I do but you have to meet me halfway or this is not going to work.”

Louis sighs. Deep down, he knows that Harry is right. He’s been running away from him for too long. It feels daunting to think that he either has to leave and go back on the streets or accept that he and Harry are becoming friends. There’s no backing out now, though. Louis couldn’t forget about Harry and pretend they haven’t bonded.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

Harry sighs and beckons him over but Louis refuses.

“I can find you a job,” Harry repeats with a bit more force. The fire in his eyes comes back to life, glowing bright. “My friend is looking for an assistant, actually. His previous one quit last week to go on a cruise or something. I’ll have a word with him, we can figure something out, OK?”

Louis’ first instinct is to say no, to refuse the help that Harry wants to give him. He pauses to think about it, chewing on his bottom lip. After another look at Harry, he caves and goes to sit next to him.

Part of him can’t believe he is considering the offer. If he agrees, it looks like he will have that boring office job after all. Perhaps it’s not all bad though it is a nerve-wracking thought. Louis has made sure to kill any hope he still had that one day the tables would turn and things would change for the better.

“Louis? Please, think about it. You’d gain experience and earn money, you wouldn’t have to let men touch you anymore,” Harry begs him, hopeful.

Harry’s hand comes to hold both of Louis’ hands, engulfing them in his gigantic hand. He squeezes, gentle and caring. His green eyes don’t blink as they scan over Louis’ face, maybe trying to read his thoughts.

Louis inhales.

“I don’t-”

“Unless you want to be a prostitute?” Harry cuts him in disbelief

He starts to let go of Louis’ hands as his eyes dart away from Louis, as if unable to look at him after that thought. It takes one more second of doubt for Louis to react. He grabs Harry’s other hand and tightens his hold on the one already holding him.

Even if it would be easier, if it’s the simplest solution that Louis knows he should take, he just can’t let Harry think those awful things about him. As if Louis does enjoy to be a prostitute.

No matter how far away Louis pushes Harry, Harry always come back, like a boomerang or a magnet that can’t stay away. This time, Louis is tired. He’s exhausted to continue pushing Harry away, to fight a lost battle because when it comes to Harry, Louis is weak. He has been from the beginning. Today, Louis doesn’t want to keep his guards up. He wants to let go and not feel alone.

“I’m scared,” he admits in a quiet whisper, throat too tight with upcoming sobs.

In an instant, Harry’s face softens from anguished to understanding. He cracks a tiny dimple-less smile and squeezes Louis’ hands.

“It’s OK to be scared but trust me. Please? You don’t have to face the world alone anymore. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry’s words are convincing and honest, that much Louis can tell. These last few months, Harry has done so much for him without ever asking something in return.

Hell, he even rejected Louis on that first night when Louis thought Harry wanted to use him whenever he felt like it. For the first time in years, Louis is hoping and letting someone in, letting Harry in doesn’t feel like a mistake. It’s liberating and it’s like something has broken loose inside of him. His chest feels light and his face wants to smile.

Besides, something tells him that Harry is not one to give up at the first hardship. So far, he hasn’t.

“Alright,” Louis whispers despite the gut-wrenching fear coursing through his veins and his wild heart beating fast and hard.

He can do this, he thinks. He can let Harry in and stop running away from their friendship.

“Alright?” Harry parrots, a huge grin creeping on his face. He squeezes Louis’ hands so tight it hurts but neither of them complain. It marks the beginning of something new, something fragile yet hopeful. “You’ll work for my friend?”

The way Harry is looking at him with so much wonder and amazement overwhelms him and renders him speechless. Louis can only nod in response.

“That’s great, Louis. I’m so proud of you.”

It looks as if Harry wants to say or do more but he refrains himself. He just keeps on smiling at Louis instead.

“You won’t regret it, I promise. Niall is a nice chap, very laid back. He’ll answer all your questions and will make you feel welcome and at home.”

Harry’s smile is the brightest, the happiest Louis has seen so far. When Louis would turn away from such blinding smile, this time he doesn’t avert his eyes. This time, he even starts to smile back..

“Won’t his boss mind though?” Louis is a bit worried that despite Harry’s assurance to find him a job, Niall’s boss will give them a different answer. “What does he even do? Where does he work?”

“Don’t you worry, I’ve got it all under control.” Harry’s smile turns enigmatic and his eyes are twinkling in delight. “Niall works at Simply Green with me, he’s the stock manager.”

Louis hums and nods then offers a tentative smile that has Harry squeezing his hands again. Right, he thinks, at least, if things go south, Louis can always go and find Harry.

“OK.”

He can’t bring himself to say that he trusts Harry but the message must be clear on his face because Harry nods, as if to tell him it’s alright.

“Are you- are you going to.... Keep on seeing these men?” Harry gestures at Louis’ wrists where the bruises are unmistakable. He sounds uncertain and Louis can see the doubt and anxiety flickering in his eyes.

“No,” Louis shakes his head.

Harry exhales a relieved shaky breath that hits Louis’ cheeks.

“Good, good. I know I have no say in what you do with your body or with your life but it was driving me insane,” Harry admits, sheepish. “Knowing what you were doing while I was at work... I...”

Louis doesn’t feel guilty because Harry is right; he has no business interfering with his life. However, he has to admit to himself that he hates it when Harry seems to be thinking so low of him because when they’re together, Louis doesn’t feel like a prostitute.

“You used to he one of them.”

“What? No, I wasn’t, I... No, I was always caring for you, I-” Harry sighs, frustrated with himself. He lowers his gaze and lets go of Louis’ hands. “Yes, I was one of them.”

It’s painful to watch Harry looking so torn and angry about his actions. Something twists inside of Louis. He wants to reach for Harry but he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” Louis amends. “You were never like any of them.”

“No, you were right. I was one of them. I was using you for my own benefit. God, Louis, I am so sorry. I feel disgusted with myself for what I did to you.”

“Harry, I chose this. Maybe not willingly, but I chose this. I’ve refused some clients before when they scared the crap out of me but you treated me with respect which is more than I can say about others. You’re not a bad person.”

Shaking his head, Harry gets off the sofa and starts pacing back and forth in front of him.

“I’m not, really not. I’m a monster. I can’t believe it took me this long to realise it.”

“Harry, shut up, you’re not a monster,” Louis says as he gets up from the sofa, giving in to his urge. He stands in front of Harry to stop him from pacing. “I appreciate your apology but it’s all in the past now, OK?”

Louis can’t tell what Harry is thinking. He looks conflicted, perhaps still beating himself up in his own head.

“I took advantage of you. God, how can you stand to look at me? How can you live with me? You must be reminded of terrible things every time you see me.”

Seeing how anguished Harry is, Louis understands only too well how haunted Harry is feeling. He shakes his head and takes Harry’s hands in his own, ignoring the surprise on Harry’s face or his own beating heart.

“Listen to me. Yeah it sucks that you were one of them. Sometimes that’s all I can think about but I need this to be put behind us. Harry, I need to. If... If I’m going to be working with you and your friend, I need to try and start over.” He sighs and groans. “I never thought things could change for me yet you happened. So, yeah, you were one of my clients but whatever. It’s in the past now. I actually have a shot at a different life. Harry, do you understand how big this is?”

Louis stops talking then because he hadn’t planned on revealing so much. He knows it’s worth it when Harry smiles and nods.

“Alright then. You’re right. Let’s just, put this behind us,” he agrees. “Have a toast with me,” Harry adds all of a sudden, light returning to his eyes.

“What?”

“Have a toast with me,” Harry repeats, beaming. “Come on.”

Harry tugs him towards the kitchen with a spring in his step. Louis follows, stunned by Harry’s spontaneous proposition.

They reach the kitchen in no time. Harry lets go of Louis’ hand to search the cupboards above the stove. He takes out two champagne flutes that he puts down on the kitchen island.

“Champagne, OK ?” Harry asks as he searches inside the larder.

“I don’t drink,” Louis reminds him.

Harry doesn’t answer. He comes out with an expensive looking bottle and a corkscrew.

“Nonsense. Just one glass, please? It’s worth celebrating,” Harry says with a cheeky smile that shows his dimples.

Louis rolls his eyes but gives in. It seems that he can’t refuse Harry anything.

“Fine,” he sighs, pretending to be annoyed but really, there’s a smile tugging at his lips.

For some reason, he’s feeling giddy and sort of excited. He has to admit that Harry has had a good idea.

“Great,” Harry says.

He opens the bottle then pours them a small glass each. Handing one to Louis, Harry raises his in the air.

“To a new beginning and new adventures,” Harry says, his glinting eyes locked into Louis’, intense and unblinking.

“To a new beginning and new adventures,” Louis repeats, smiling just as wide as Harry because perhaps there is still some hope for him.

Staring at Harry, Louis feels that yeah, maybe things will change at last. He has a good feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you in a few weeks


End file.
